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162 


50 Cents 


Xovcll’s International Series 


Sunny Stories 

And Some Shady Ones 

by 

JAMES PAYN 

Author of “High Spirits,” “A Confidential Agent,” “The Burnt 
Million,” “ Notes from the News,” Etc., Etc. 



c Authorised Edition 


NEW YORK 

JOHN W. LOVELL COMPANY 

150 Worth Street, corner Mission Place 


Every work in this series is published by arrangement with the author 


Issued Weekly. Annual Subscription, $15.00. May 11, 1891. 
Entered at New York Post Office as second-class matter. 


LOVELLS 

INTERNATIONAL SERIES 

OP 

MODERN NOVELS. 


The new works published in this excellent Series, Semi-Weekly, are always 
the first issued in this country. 

Every issue is printed from new, clear electrotype plates, on fine paper 
and bound in attractive paper covers of original design. 


No. 

Cts. 

No. 

Cts. 

1. 

Miss Eyon op Eton Court. 


31. 

That Other Woman. Annie 



Katherine S. Macquoid 

30 


Thomas 

39 

2. 

Hartas Maturin. H. F- 


32. 

The Curse of Carne’s Hold 



Lester 

50 


G. A. Henty 

30 

3. 

Tales op To-Day. G. R. Sims 

30 

33. 

Uncle Piper of Piper’s Hill. 


4. 

English Life Seen Through 



Tasma. 

30 


Yankee Eyes. T. C. Craw- 


34. 

A Life Sentence. Adeline 



ford 

50 


Sargeant 

30 

5. 

Penny Lancaster, Farmer. 


35. 

Kit Wyndham. F. Barrett. . 

30 


Mrs. Bellamy 

50 

36. 

The Tree of Knowledge. 


6. 

Under False Pretences. 



G. M. Robins 

30 


Adeline Sergeant 

50 

37. 

Roland Oliver. J. McCarthy 

30 

7. 

In Exchange for a Soul. 


38. 

Sheba. Rita 

30 


Mary Linskill 

30 

39. 

Sylvia Arden. O. Crawfurd 

30 

8. 

OtriLDEROY. Ouida 

30 

40. 

Young Mr. Ainslie’s Court- 


9. 

St. Cuthbert’s Tower. Flor- 



ship. F. C. Philips 

30 


ence Warden 

30 

41. 

The Haute Noblesse. Geo. 


10. 

Elizabeth Morley. Father- 



Manville Fenn 

30 


ine S. Macquoid 

30 

42. 

Mount Eden. F Marryat.. 

30 

11. 

Divorce ; or Faithful and 


43. 

Buttons. John S. Winter. . . 

30 


Unfaithful Margaret Lee 

50 

44. 

Nurse Revel’s Mistake. 


12. 

Long Odds. Hawley Smart. 

30 


Florence Warden 

30 

13. 

On Circumstantial Evidence 


45. 

jArminell. S. Baring-Gould. 

50 


Florence Marry at 

30 

46. 

The Lament of Dives. Wal- 


14. 

Miss Kate; or Confessions 



ter Besant 

30 


of a Caretaker. Rita — 

30 

47. 

Mrs. Bob. John S. Winter. . 

30 

15. 

A Vagabond Lover. Rita. . . 

20 

48. 

Was Ever Woman in this 


16. 

The Search for Basil Lynd- 



Humor Wooed. C. Gibbon. 

30 


hurst. R< >sa N. Carey — 

30 

49. 

The Mynn’s Mystery. Geo. 


17. 

The Wing of the Azrael 



Manville Fenn 

30 


Mona Caird 

30 

50. 

Hedri. Helen Mathers 

30 

18. 

The Fog Princess. F. Warden 

30 

51. 

The Bondman. Hall Caine.. 

30 

19. 

John Herring. S. Baring- 


52. 

A Girl of the People. L. T. 



Gould 

50 


Meade 

30 

20. 

The Fatal Phryne. F. C. 


53. 

Twenty Novellettes. By 



Philips and C. J. Wills 

30 


Twenty Prominent Novelists 

30 

21. 

Harvest. John S. Winter. . . 

30 

54. 

A Family Without a Name. 


22. 

Mehalah. S. Baring-Gould.. 

50 


Jules Verne 

30 

23. 

A Troublesome Girl. “ The 


55. 

A Sydney Sovereign. 



Duchess ” 

30 


Tasma 

30 

24. 

Derrick Vaughan, Novelist 


56. 

A March in the Ranks. Jes- 



Edna Lyall 

30 


sie Fothergill 

30 

25. 

SophyOarmine. John Strange 


57. 

Our Erring Brother. F. W. 



Winter 

30 


Robinson 

30 

26. 

The Luck of the House. 


58. 

Misadventure. W. E. Norris 

30 


Adeline Sergeant 

30 

59. 

Plain Tales from the Hills 


27. 

The Pennycomequicks. S. 



Rudyard Kipling 

50 


Barinsr-Gould 

50 

60. 

Dinna Forget. J. S. Winter 

30 

28. 

Jezebel’s Friends. Dora 


61. 

Cosette. K. S. Macquoid... 

30 


Russell 

30 

62. 

Master of His Fate. J. Mac- 


29. 

Comedy of a Country House. 



laren Cobban 

30 


Julian Sturgis 

30 

63. 

A Very Strange Family. F. 


30. 

The Piccadilly Puzzle. 



W. Robinson 

30 


F ergus Hume 

30 

64. 

The Kilburns. A. Thomas. 

30 


CONTINUED ON THIRD PAGE OF COVER 


SUNNY STORIES 


"t 


WORKS BY JAMES PAYN 

PUBLISHED IN THE 

INTERNATIONAL SERIES. 

NO. CTS. 

81. . Burnt Million, The, ... 50 

108. Notes from the ‘ News,’ . . 50 

162. Sunny Stories and Some Shady Ones, 50 
1 2 1. Word and the Will, The, . . 50 


Xovell’s Unternational Series, IRo. 162. 


SUNNY STORIES 


AND SOME SHADY ONES 


BY / 

JAMES PAYN 

AUTHOR OF “HIGH SPIRITS,” “A CONFIDENTIAL AGENT,” “THE BURNT 
MILLION,” “NOTES FROM THE NEWS,” ETC., ETC- 


c Authorised Edition 


( jljfV 


~ ' ' co -v^ 

- 0 ?YR!Q Hr x 

,17 189 ! 

6 S3 W 

M. h :GTO^* 


NEW YORK 

JOHN W. LOVELL COMPANY 

150 Worth Street, corner Mission Place 


, P 2-^ P ^ 


Copyright, 1891, 

BY 

UNITED STATES BOOK COMPANY 


CONTENTS 


SUNNY STORIES. 

Dauntless Kitty, 7 

A Faithful Retainer, 24 

A Clerk’s Conscience, 43 

Aunt Sue’s Panic, 59 

Mr. Blodgers’ Apology, 76 

A Guardian Angel, 89 

A Cheap Tour, 103 

Under Sentence of Death, 118 

GLEANINGS FROM DARK ANNALS. 

Introduction, 137 

Was King Charles Hung in Chains ? . . . 154 

Child Stealing, i . .172 

Modern Amazons, 183 

Evidence, 199 

Missing, 213 

Inadequate Motive, 225 

The Irresponsible, 235 

Coming to Life Again, 248 

Fraudulent Bankruptcy, 259 



DAUNTLESS KITTY. 


In those good old times when England was “ Merry 
England ” and May fell later, and admitted of danc- 
ing in the open air, there was a great deficiency of 
roads ; they were few in number and bad of their 
kind, besides being infested with highwaymen, In 
these days we have roads in plenty, and no foot- 
pads ; but also no footpaths, of which our ancestors 
had an abundance. Not only near London and 
other large towns, but all the land over, the pedes- 
trian is being more and more shut out from the 
fields by hideous placards with “ Trespassers 
beware ! ” upon them, and constrained, like cattle, 
to keep to the dusty highway. The placards will 
doubtless be swept away (with much else better 
worth keeping) at a no distant date (or so it seems 
to those who read the signs of the times), but in the 
meantime the walkist (as our American cousin calls 
him) suffers. Even in the Lake Country the nui- 
sance is growing, and the very mountains are getting 
a ring-fence put round them, as if in sign of the 
union of selfishness and short-sight in their pro- 
prietors. 

Thus it happens that the country, for him who 
loves it, has begun to signify only those parts of 


8 


DAUNTLESS KITTY. 


England in which he can move with the old free- 
dom ; where one can still go by footpaths from 
church-spire to church-spire, through the purple 
clover or the golden wheat, with no other obstruc- 
tion than the stile, itself a place of rest, with room 
for two upon it, which is the right number for com- 
pany. This was one of the reasons which (besides 
health and youth) made Marlstone such a charming 
spot to me years ago, when I was reading there for 
— well, for something I never got — with my private 
tutor. The whole district was full of footpaths, and 
there was a short-cut to everywhere, which was al- 
ways longer than the long way round, because one 
dawdled so over its beauties. There were roads, of 
course, and one a turnpike one ; but, with that ex- 
ception, even these were very different from the 
bare, broad highways on which cyclists nowadays 
beat other cyclists’ “ records.” They were lanes with 
wild, luxuriant hedgerows, or leafy walls that met 
above one’s head, with sudden glimpses, over lich- 
ened gates, of all the country round, and bordered 
in noble extravagance with tufted grass, where the 
travelling tinker’s hobbled horse fed, or the gipsies 
pitched their tents, and the pretty ones told your 
fortune — if you looked as if you had one to speak 
of, and crossed their palms with silver. 

In winter, it is true, they were muddy, not to say 
boggy ; and there, being no arrangement for lighting 
them in the evening, there were incidents in night 
travel that foolish townsfolk would perhaps have 
magnified into accidents. In the country concussion 


DAUNTLESS KITTY. 


9 


of the brain hardly makes any difference to the 
inhabitants, and the breaking of a collar-bone is less 
than a shirt-button coming off (especially at the back 
of the neck) to the Londoner. 

We were not always studying at the Vicarage, and, 
indeed, had plenty of time for making the acquaint- 
ance of our neighbors ; though croquet had not been 
born, nor lawn-tennis thought of, there were oppor- 
tunities of meeting offered to young people, of which 
my tutor’s pupils frequently availed themselves. 
We fell in love pretty constantly with the young 
ladies of the county, though not very far, nor so as 
to hurt ourselves much, for falling in love (especially 
in youth) is a very different thing from falling in 
battle ; but whomsoever we loved of these high-born 
damsels, there was always a comer in our hearts left 
for Kitty Carol, who was no “ young lady ” at all. It 
was a most innocent proceeding — as, for my part, I 
am prepared, with my hand upon my heart, to swear 
— and only the natural outcome of the tenderness of 
our years and the chivalry of our hearts ; and, at all 
events, we could not help it. Slight as a fairy, and 
very little bigger ; graceful as a fawn ; beautiful as 
a houri (only much more modest than they are rep- 
resented by the prophet) ; and wearing all that 
weight of learning (for though but nineteen, she 
was the village schoolmistress), like a flower, she 
inthralled us all. 

Perhaps if some of our mammas had known of her 
existence, they would have been as interested in her 
as we were, though in another way. They would 


10 


DAUNTLESS KITTY. 


have marked her “ dangerous ” — like the place in the 
pond where the springs rose, and always made our 
ice misafe — and drawn our tutor’s attention to her ; 
but it would have been a superfluous act, inasmuch 
as (1) it was already there, for he paid her very par- 
ticular attention ; and (2) she had a lover of her 
own, to whom, it is my conviction, she would have 
been true and faithful, even if Castleton, our only 
lord (for which he suffered at our hands), had laid 
at her feet his title, his stammer, and all that he had 
or would have. 

This swain of hers was Geoffrey Grimshaw, son of 
the wealthy yeoman of that name, but better known 
among us as “ Old Grim.” The old farmer was not, 
indeed, either in appearance or dress, an agreeable 
person, especially if he found us on his land with a 
gun in our hands, or even a fishing-rod, as he often 
did. “ Perhaps,” he would say, with a fine irony, on 
such occasions, “ you thinks because you are young 
gentlemen that the law of trespass — ay, and agin’ 
shootin’, very like, without a license — was never 
meant for such as you ; but Giles Grimshaw will 
teach you different. And as for yon lordling ” (for 
we tried Castleton’s rank on him, which we had found 
useful on similar occasions), “ I don’t care one snap 
for his title ! Why, his feyther, I hear, has got as 
many mortgages on his estate as he has Christian 
names, and don’t know where to turn for a guinea.” 

This frankness, though it always sent us into fits 
of laughter, was of course far from polite; and since 
he treated comparative strangers in that way, one 


DAUNTLESS KITTY. 


11 


may guess how his only son fared, who was entirely 
dependent on him. None of our mammas, indeed, 
would have been more horrified at the idea of our 
marrying portionless Kitty Carol than he would 
have been at that of her becoming Mrs. Geoffrey 
Grimshaw ; and poor Jeff, as we called him (for we 
all liked the handsome young fellow, who took the 
prizes for back-sword and cudgel play throughout 
the neighborhood), had to carry on his love-affair 
with the utmost secrecy and caution. It was only 
because the old farmer thought so much of himself 
and his wealth, and that Jeff would never venture to 
fall in love with any woman without his permission, 
that the thing was kept from him — a very just pun- 
ishment for his egotism and greed. 

But we pupils were all in the secret of Jeff’s love- 
affair, and many a laugh had we at Kitty’s expense 
about it, though she protested that, for her part, she 
did not know what we meant, and knew no more of 
the young man, save what she had seen of him at 
“the sports” and from the gallery in church. For 
Kitty was organist (if a ten-pound harmonium can 
be called an organ) as well as schoolmistress, and 
had a better view of the congregation than even the 
vicar himself ; and often had I seen her bright eyes 
glance at the Grimshaw pew, to be reflected by 
another glance (not from old Grim’s eyes, which 
were generally closed in slumber), like the sun upon 
a window. 

It was curious how a girl so quiet and simple, and 
a young fellow so frank and honest as Jeff, could 


12 


DAUNTLESS KITTY. 


manage matters so cleverly as not to excite suspic- 
ion in a quarter which would have been fatal to their 
success; but Jeff’s father knew little about her — 
certainly not how lovely she was, which showed how 
very old Old Grim was getting — except that she had 
<£40 a year from the parish, which he thought and 
said was X20 too much. 

Besides this little income, she had the school-house 
to live in rent-free, which was of course an object 
to her, though not one girl out of ten would have 
dared to take advantage of it ; for the school-house 
was some little distance from the village, and stood 
quite by itself, and in the winter nights it must have 
seemed a lonesome place enough to her. There was 
but one living-room and a bedchamber above the 
school-room, so that she could not have kept a ser- 
vant, even if she could have afforded it ; and Kitty 
was anxious to save every penny against the day 
when Old Grim should discover their secret, and 
turn Jeff out of doors into her arms. 

Nothing, she was justly persuaded, would ever 
persuade Jeff to give her up ; but in the meantime 
the young couple waited with the greatest patience, 
putting by what they could ; and if dear Kitty— be- 
ing human after all — had a vague hope that perhaps 
her father-in-law in futuro might be mercifully re- 
moved from this troublesome world, she said little 
about it to anybody, and least of all to her sweet- 
heart. He had no serious rival, though, of course, 
we should have all liked to be in his shoes ; but at 
one time, young as she was, she had had her ad- 


DAUNTLESS KITTY. 


13 


mirers, before Jeff had declared himself. One of 
them had been Dick Tarlton, the apothecary’s son, 
who had gone to the bad, as some fools said, in con- 
sequence of her neglecting him, which, considering 
he was a drunkard before, and not wholly uncon- 
nected with sheep-stealing (though he got off on an 
alibi), seemed to the last degree improbable. 

Nowadays, when every blackguard is whitewashed 
by some theory or another connected with his birth 
or bringing up, and nobody is bad of himself, but 
only made so, Dick would doubtless have been less 
harshly judged ; but opinion in Marlstone in my 
time respecting him was that he was a scoundrel ; 
and we pitied his poor father instead of laying the 
blame on him for having begotten him. He loafed 
about the place, and took everything out of the 
apothecary he could lay his hands on, except the 
drugs, though a little prussic acid would have 
suited his case to a nicety, and been a satisfaction 
to everybody. 

One winter’s night I was woke out of my sleep at 
the vicarage by the sound of a great bell, and hud- 
dling on a few clothes, roused up the vicar. “ There 
must be a conflagration, sir, somewhere,” I cried, ex- 
citedly, “for the fire-bell is going ! ” My tutor, who 
piqued himself on his logical faculties, pushed up 
his nightcap over his forehead, as he sat in bed, and 
began to demonstrate that I tvus laboring under a 
delusion, because there was no fire-bell in the par- 
ish. 

“ Well, it’s not the church bell, sir.” 


14 


DAUNTLESS KITTY. 


“ I hope not, indeed, at such an hour as this,” he 
answered, for he was a stickler for his ecclesiastical 
privileges ; “ it is only a singing in your ears, which 

a blue pill ” But here he heard the clanging of 

the bell himself. “ Good heavens ! ” he cried, “it is 
from the school-house ; ” and he was out of bed in a 
second. 

In five minutes we were all flying down the road 
in our great-coats (and little else) to Kitty’s rescue. 
The vicar had told her if ever she was in trouble to 
ring the school-bell, and there was no doubt that 
something was amiss with her. As we passed 
Grimshaw’s farm we saw no light in the windows, 
which seemed strange, for although we knew Old 
Grim had gone aw'ay for a day or two, it was amaz- 
ing that Jeff had not been roused by the bell ; and, 
as it was still ringing, he could not have preceded us. 
However, there was no time for speculation, for we 
were all running our hardest, Castleton leading, be- 
cause his lordship had the longest legs. 

The moon was at its full, and around the school- 
house it was almost as light as day. On the ground 
in front of it, white with frost, lay a man and a lad- 
der, the latter with most of its rungs smashed, and 
the former with his leg broken. They must both 
have had a nasty fall. The man was Mr. Richard 
Tarlton, white and speechless. 

“ What the deu — deu — deuce are you doing here, 
you bl — bl — blackguard ? ” stammered his lordship ; 
but not a word did the other say, and still the great 
bell jangled away in its belfry. 


DAUNTLESS KITTY . 


15 


“ What is it, Kitty ? ” cried my tutor, banging at 
the door with the thick cudgel with which he had 
provided himself. “It is the vicar — we are your 
friends here ; come down.” 

Then pretty Kitty came down and unlocked the 
door, very pale and trembling, but looking lovelier 
than ever in her winter dressing-gown. As soon as 
she caught sight of the prostrate figure in the road 
she set up a little scream. 

“Oh, the poor man!” she said; “I am sure he 
has hurt himself most dreadfully. It was his 
screams that frightened me so.” 

“ It was something else that frightened you first, 
though, my poor girl,” said the vicar, pitifully. “ It 
is clear enough that this scoundrel was going to rob 
the house, and would have done it, but for you push- 
ing him and his ladder backward. You’re a brave 
girl, a dauntless girl, Kitty ! and you would have 
nothing to be ashamed of if you had broken his 
neck instead of his leg. You cowardly hound, to at- 
tack a poor girl living all alone ! ” — this last remark 
was, of course, made to Dick, who had opened his 
eyes and feebly asked to be taken home. This was 
obviously the best thing to be done with him, be- 
cause his father was an apothecary, which is almost 
as good as a doctor. “You shall go there in the 
meantime,” said the vicar, with stem significance, by 
way of indicating that the arrangement would be but 
temporary, and the jail would be his goal eventually. 

So Kitty lent us her own little mattress, and four 
of us volunteered to carry the wretch, while the vicar 


16 


DAUNTLESS KITTY. 


superintended the proceedings as ambulance inspec- 
tor. As I was the fifth man, and not wanted, I of- 
fered to stay with poor Kitty, in case she might be 
frightened again ; but my tutor, with some irritation 
(he called my benevolent proposition “ a pretty 
thing indeed,” but obviously in no complimentary 
sense), forbade it, and bade me come along with the 
rest. 

“ Pray be careful with the poor man,” were the 
tender-hearted girl’s last words ; “I am afraid he is 
very badly hurt.” 

The school-house was so far from the village that 
its alarm-bell had aroused no one but ourselves. 
Even Jeff Grimshaw, who had come home late from 
market (indeed, not long before the burglary had 
been attempted), and dog-tired, had not had his 
slumbers broken by it ; but the next morning all 
Marlstone knew what had happened, and could talk 
of nothing else but Dauntless Kitty. 

There could be no question as to the circumstances 
of the case. Kitty’s salary had been paid her that 
very afternoon, being quarter-day, and Dick had 
thought to make prize of her ten pounds without 
difficulty. Some said he had put crape on his face 
that she might not know him, but the more received 
version of the story was that the audacious repro- 
bate had used no concealment, but trusted to her 
promise not to betray him if he spared her life. 
But, instead of being beholden to his mercy, no 
sooner had the courageous little creature heard the 
ladder grate on her window-sill than she had thrown 


DAUNTLESS KITTY. 


17 


tip the sash, and, before his ugly mug could present 
itself, had grasped a rung or two, and thrown both 
thief and ladder backward. It was wonderful how 
such little wrists and fairy hands could have per- 
formed such a feat, but there was the broken ladder, 
and Dick with his broken leg, and a rural policeman 
watching him, to prove it. Next Saturday the 
whole affair was in the county paper, from which it 
was copied into the London ones, and “ ran the round 
of the Press.” 

Not since Grace Darling’s magnificent exploit had 
any heroine been made so much of by the public as 
Kitty Carol. Her courage was extolled to the skies, 
and, what I believe pleased her much more (for she 
was a sensible girl), not only was a testimonial 
presented to her by the neighborhood on vellum, but 
a purse of fifty guineas. 

Even old Grimshaw expressed his opinion to his 
son that “ that ’ere young schoolmistress must be a 
good plucked one,” to which Jeff replied, with his 
usual caution upon that delicate subject, that “ he 
thought she must be so if what the newspapers said 
of the young woman was correct.” As for my 
tutor’s pupils, if we had all been smitten with Kitty 
before, we were now quite wild about her, and in 
some cases even driven to poetry, in which Kitty 
made a not very “ allowable rhyme ” with “pretty,” 
and another with “witty,” which was perfect enough 
so far as the rhyme went, but absolutely without 
foundation in fact. For Kitty, admirable as she 
was in so many ways, was not brilliant. She could 
2 


18 


DAUNTLESS KITTY. 


write and cipher beautifully, of course, and was, as I 
have said, musical; but otherwise she was not an 
accomplished girl. With so much beauty and good 
sense and courage she did not need accomplishments, 
nor would she have suited Jeff if she had possessed 
them. He, too, like herself, was all naturalness and 
simplicity, and truthful as the day. 

It was no slur upon Kitty’s truth, but rather an 
illustration of her magnanimity and tenderness of 
heart, that a stranger thing now occurred (though it 
by no means gave the same public satisfaction) than 
even the incident that had made her famous. Not- 
withstanding the wrong that had been done her, and 
which might have ended disastrously indeed, Kitty 
declined to prosecute. She not only declared she 
had not recognized Dick, which would have been of 
very little consequence, since he had been found by 
us almost in the very act of burglary, but protested 
that she was not prepared to swear any such crime 
had been attempted. She had no recollection, she 
said, of having seen him on the ladder, or of push- 
ing it backward, though she had heard the crash of 
it in the road and the cries of the wounded ruffian. 
She even added that it was solely for his sake, and 
not on her own account, that she had held on to the 
school-bell, and rung it as it had certainly never 
been rung before. 

This latter statement was corroborated (if one 
could call it by such a name, when it was obviously 
a mere straw that he was clinging to) by Dick him- 
self, who swore (as he would swear anything) that, 


DAUNTLESS KITTY . 


19 


being drunk (as usual), he had fallen over the lad- 
der, just opposite the school-house, and that in that 
brittle weather they had both gone to pieces. And 
here again he was backed to some small extent by 
Jeff, for the ladder, which belonged to his father, 
had been used of late for cutting hedgerows, and he 
was not “ prepared to swear ” that it had not been 
left out that night in such a position as to have ob- 
structed the footpath. 

Now, it was known that Dick’s father, the apothe- 
cary, had called on Kitty the morning after the oc- 
currence, and what was more likely than that he had 
prevailed on her not to give evidence against his 
good-for-nothing son? — and of course Jeff would 
have said anything that Kitty bade him ; so this 
story of hers was believed by nobody. The best 
that could be said of it was that she was so alarmed 
and excited by the attempted outrage that, after her 
noble instincts had preserved her in the manner it 
was clear they had done, she remembered absolutely 
nothing of what had happened. Still, without her 
testimony there was nothing to oppose to Dick’s 
explanation of the affair, and as my tutor expressed 
it (he was a magistrate, and desirous of distinguish- 
ing himself in that line), it was clear that there 
would be “an infamous miscarriage of justice.” 

And so, in point of fact, there was. Every engine 
was set to work to break down poor Kitty’s resolu- 
tion (her “ infernal obstinacy,” Old Grim called it), 
but without success. So angry my tutor was with 
her, and even with Jeff for not pressing the same 


20 


DAUNTLESS KITTY. 


arguments on her — he only said, “Well, I knows 
nothin’ about it ” — and so harshly was she treated by 
“the authorities,” that a reaction set in in her favor, 
and Dauntless Kitty became more popular — on ac- 
count of her magnanimity — than ever. When I 
quitted the Vicarage for the University I left a new 
set of pupils behind me even more devoted to her 
than the old ones : for the story of her achievement 
had become legend, and round her always becoming 
little bonnet there was a halo — not indeed of a 
saint (though she was that too, so far as propriety 
could make one), but of a heroine. 

Many, many years afterward I revisited Marl- 
stone at the invitation of my old tutor. At first we 
had corresponded a little, but as time went on our 
communications had gradually ceased, and I knew 
no more of what had happened in the interval, in 
the place that for two happy years had been my 
home, than a stranger. My young companions 
were scattered far and wide : Castleton had become 
somebody else, having succeeded to his father’s 
peerage; another was a colonial bishop; another 
(the brightest of us) had perished in battle ; another, 
alas ! had “ gone under,” under far sadder circum- 
stances — in disaster and disgrace. We had plenty 
to talk about of what concerned us more nearly 
before I inquired, “ And what has become of pretty 
Kitty Carol?” 

“Well, she has long become Kitty Grimshaw.” 

“So I expected, of course. Did Old Grim give 
his consent ? ” 


DAUNTLESS KITTY. 


21 


“Only by silence,” said the vicar — “the silence 
of the grave. He died rather suddenly, and then, 
of course, the young people — for they were still 
young — went their own way.” 

“Well, they deserved it,” I said ; “a more patient 
pair I never knew.” 

The vicar coughed — a little drily, I thought. 

“Jeff was such a fine, frank fellow,” I continued, 
warming with my recollection of him. “Deceit 
seemed so impossible to him that I always won- 
dered how he could have kept his love for Kitty 
a secret from his father ; and she, too, how sim- 
ple ” 

“Not so simple as you think, and as I used to 
think,” interrupted the vicar. 

“ Ah, but you could never forgive her for refusing 
to prosecute that scoundrel Dick Tarlton,” said I, 
smiling. “Did you ever learn the rights of that 
story, by the w r ay ? ” 

“I learnt the story — but there was not much 
rights in it,” returned my companion, still more 
grimly. “I am sorry to destroy an illusion of 
youth, my dear fellow, but that young woman made 
fools of us all in that matter.” 

“What? Dauntless Kitty? Oh, do let me hear 
all about it ! ” 

“Well, briefly, this is what occurred: Jeff and 
she were not such a very patient couple, for, taking 
advantage of a month’s visit that Kitty paid with 
my housekeeper, and he with his father, to see the 
World’s Fair in London— the first Exhibition, you 


22 


DAUNTLESS KITTY. 


know — they got married there, and were married 
when you knew them.” 

“ Well, I never ! ” said I. 

“ That is what we all said when we came to hear 
of it, which fortunately for them old Grimshaw 
never did. The farmer was away from home, you 
remember, on the evening of the burglary, and Jeff 
had gone to market ; he called at the school-house 
on his way home, and had a late supper with his 
wife. As they sat at table they heard the ladder 
being put up at the window ; Kitty was not at all 
frightened, yet she hardly deserved, under the cir- 
cumstances, that character for dauntlessness which 
she long enjoyed ; as for Jeff, he rather relished the 
notion of the surprise he would give the burglar 
when he should see whom he had to deal with 
instead of Kitty. In fact, I should think Mr. 
Kichard Tarlton was almost as astonished at that 
unexpected spectacle as at finding himself falling 
backward through space onto the frozen ground, 
with the results with which we are acquainted. 
But Dick had recognized Jeff, which complicated 
matters very much. An arrangement was therefore 
entered into between them on the spot. If Dick 
said nothing, Kitty was to say nothing. He would 
thus avoid penal servitude, while the young couple 
would keep the secret of their marriage undisclosed. 
You remember how we all went on about ‘those 
little wrists, those dainty fingers,” having pushed 
the ruffian to the ground. It was Jeff’s fingers, 
which were not at all dainty, that did it. The way 


DAUNTLESS KITTY . 


93 


in which she was spoken of in the testimonial (which 
I am afraid I composed) makes me hot with indig- 
nation even to this hour. How modestly, and al- 
most reluctantly, you recollect, she took that fifty 
guineas we presented to her as the reward of valor — 
and no wonder. On the other hand, it must be 
confessed she never perjured herself, as I thought 
she did, about the matter. She ran into the other 
room while Jeff threw the ladder backward, and 
really did not witness that catastrophe.” 

“ And how did it come out, after all? ” 

“ Oh, Dick Tarlton — though, fortunately for Jeff 
and his wife, not till after old Grimshaw died, and 
they had made a pretence of going away and getting 
married — told the whole story in his cups. Public 
feeling here — for none of us like being made fools of 
— ran very strong against Kitty, and her husband 
had to sell the farm and go elsewhere.” 

“ I am sorry for that,” said I, with a touch of sen- 
timent. “I should like to have seen pretty Kitty.” 

“Well, one would hardly call her pretty now — she 
was just made a grandmother the last time I saw 
her ; but if you do come across her, don’t call her 
‘ Dauntless Kitty,’ as you used to do, for it’s rather 
a sore subject.” 


A FAITHFUL RETAINER. 


When I lived in the country — which was a long 
time ago — our nearest neighbors were the Lus- 
combes. They were very great personages in the 
county indeed, and the family were greatly “ re- 
spected ; ” though not, so far as I could discern, for 
any particular reason, except from their having been 
there for several generations. People are supposed 
to improve, like wine, from keeping — even if they 
are rather “ ordinary ” at starting ; and the Lus- 
combes, at the time I knew them, were considered 
quite a “ vintage ” family. They had begun in 
Charles II. ’s time, and dated their descent from 
greatness in the female line. That they had man- 
aged to keep a great estate not very much impaired 
so long was certainly a proof of great cleverness, 
since there had been many spendthrifts among 
them ; but fortunately there had been a miser or 
two, who had restored the average, and their for- 
tunes. 

Mr. Roger Luscombe, the present proprietor, was 
neither the one nor the other, but he was inclined to 
frugality, and no wonder ; a burnt child dreads the 
fire, even though he may have had nothing to do 
with lighting it himself, and his father had kicked 


A FAITHFUL RETAINER. 


25 


down a good many thousands with the help of “ the 
bones” (as dice were called in his day) and “the 
devil’s books ” (which was the name for cards with 
those that disapproved of them) and racehorses; 
there was plenty left, but it made the old gentleman 
careful and especially solicitous to keep it. There 
was no stint, however, of any kind at the Court, 
which to me, who lived in the little Yicarage of 
Dalton with my father, seemed a palace. 

It was indeed a very fine place, with statues in the 
hall, and pictures in the gallery, and peacocks on 
the terrace. Lady Jane, the daughter of a wealthy 
peer, who had almost put things on their old foot- 
ing with her ample dowry, was a very great lady, 
and had been used, I was told, to an even more 
splendid home ; but to me, who had no mother, she 
was simply the kindest and most gracious woman I 
had ever known. 

My connection with the Luscombes arose from 
their only son Richard being my father’s pupil. We 
were both brought up at home, but for very differ- 
ent reasons. In my case it was from economy : the 
living was small and our family was large, though, 
as it happened, I had no brothers. Richard was too 
precious to his parents to be trusted to the tender 
mercies of a public school. He was in delicate 
health, not so much natural to him as caused by an 
excess of care — coddling. Though he and I were 
very good friends, unless when we were quarrelling, 
it must be owned that he was a spoilt boy. 

There is a good deal of nonsense talked of young 


26 


A FAITHFUL RETAINER. 


gentlemen who are brought up from their cradles in 
an atmosphere of flattery not being spoilt ; but un- 
less they are angels — which is a very exceptional 
case — it cannot be otherwise. Richard Luscombe 
was a good fellow in many ways ; liberal with his 
money (indeed, apt to be lavish) and kind-hearted, 
but self-willed, effeminate, and impulsive. He had 
also — which was a source of great alarm and grief to 
his father — a marked taste for speculation. 

After the age of “ alley tors and commoneys,” of 
albert-rock and hard-bake, in which we both gam- 
bled frightfully, I could afford him no opportunities 
of gratifying this passion; but if he could get a 
little money “on” anything, there was nothing that 
pleased him better : not that he cared for the money, 
but for the delight of winning it. The next moment 
he would have given it away to a beggar. Numbers 
of good people look upon gambling with even 
greater horror than it deserves, because they cannot 
understand this; the attraction of risk, and the wild 
joy of “pulling off” something, when the chances 
are against one, are unknown to them. It is the 
same with the love of liquor. Richard Luscombe 
had not a spark of that (his father left him one of 
the best cellars in England, but he never touches 
even a glass of claret after dinner; “I should as 
soon think,” he says, “ of eating when I am not 
hungry ”) ; but he dearly liked what he called a 
“ spec.” Never shall I forget the first time he real- 
ized anything that could be termed a stake. 

When he was about sixteen, he and I had driven 


A FAITHFUL RETAINER. 


27 


over to some little country races a few miles away 
from Dalton, without, I fear, announcing our inten- 
tion of so doing. Fresh air was good for “ our dear 
Richard,” and since pedestrian exercise (which he 
also hated) exhausted him, he had a groom and dog- 
cart always at his own disposal. It was a day of 
great excitement for me, who had never before seen 
a race-course. The flags, the grand stand (a rude 
erection of planks, which came down, by the bye, the 
next year during the race for the cup, and reduced 
the sporting population), the insinuating gypsies, 
the bawling card-sellers, and especially the shining 
horses with their twisted manes, all excited my ad- 
miration. 

I was well acquainted with them in fiction ; and 
these illustrations of the books I loved so well de- 
lighted me. Richard, who had read less and seen 
more, was bent on business. 

He was tall for his age, but very slight and youth- 
ful-looking, and the contrast of his appearance with 
those of the company in the little ring, composed as 
it was of a choice selection of the roughest black- 
guards in England, was very striking. 

Many of these knew who he was, and were very 
glad to see him, but only one of the bookmakers 
secured his patronage. The fact was, Master Rich- 
ard had but one five-pound note to lay — he had been 
saving up his pocket-money for weeks for this very 
purpose, and he took ten to one about an outsider, 
“ Don Sebastian ” — a name I shall remember when 
all other historical knowledge has departed from me 


28 


A FAITHFUL RETAINER. 


— not because lie knew anything of the horse, but 
because the longest odds were laid against him. 

I didn’t like the look of the “gentleman sports- 
man ” who took custody of that five-pound note, but 
Richard (who had never seen him before) assured 
me, with his usual confidence, that he was “straight 
as a die ” and “as honest as the day.” 

The race excited me exceedingly ; Richard had 
lent me a field-glass (for everything he had was in 
duplicate, if not triplicate), and I watched the prog- 
ress of that running rainbow with a beating heart. 
At first Yellow Cap (the Don) seemed completely 
out of it, the last of all, but presently he began to 
creep up, and as they drew near the winning-post, 
shouts of “ Yellow Cap wins ! ” “ Yellow Cap wins ! ” 
rent the air. He did win by a head, and with a 
well-pleased flush on my face at my friend’s marvel- 
lous good fortune, I turned to congratulate him. 
He was gone. The tumult and confusion were ex- 
cessive, but looking toward the exit gate I just 
caught a glimpse of the bookmaker passing rapidly 
through it, and then of Richard in pursuit of him. 

A stout young farmer, whom I knew, was standing 
behind me, and in a few hurried words I told him 
what had happened. “ Come with me,” he said, and 
off we ran, as though we had been entered for the 
cup ourselves. The other two were already a field 
ahead, and far away from the course ; but fast as the 
bookmaker ran, the delicate Richard had come up 
with him. I could imagine how pumped he was, 
but the idea of having been swindled bv this scoun- 


A FAITHFUL RETAINER. 


29 


drel, who was running off with his five-pound note, 
as well as with the fifty pounds he owed him, had no 
doubt lent him wings. It could not, however, lend 
him strength, nor teach him the art of self-defence, 
and after a few moments, passed doubtless in polite 
request and blunt refusal, we saw the miscreant 
strike out from the shoulder and Richard go down. 

The time thus lost, however, short-lived as was 
the combat, was fatal to the victor. There were few 
better runners in Dalton than my companion and 
myself, and we gained on the bookmaker (who had 
probably trained on gin and bad tobacco) hand over 
hand. As we drew near him he turned round and 
inquired, with many expletives, made half inarticulate 
by want of breath, what we wanted with a gentle- 
man engaged on his own private affairs. 

“Well,” I said, for as I could trust my agricul- 
tural friend with the more practical measures that 
were likely to follow I thought it only fair that I 
should do the talking, “ we want first the five-pound 
note which that young gentleman (whom you have 
just knocked down) entrusted to your care, and then 
the fifty pounds you have lost to him.” 

He called Heaven to witness that he had never 
made a bet in his life with any young gentleman, 
but that, having been molested, he believed by a 
footpad, as he was returning home to his family, he 
had been compelled to defend himself. 

“ I heard you make the bet, and saw you take the 
money,” I remarked, with confidence. 

“ That’s good enough,” said the farmer. “ Now if 


so 


A FAITHFUL RETAINER. 


you don’t shell out that money this instant, I’ll have 
you back in the ring in a brace of shakes and tell 
them what has happened. Last year they tore a 
welsher pretty nigh to pieces, ar.d this year (if you 
don’t ‘ part ’) they’ll do it quite.” 

The bookmaker turned livid — I never saw a man 
in such a funk in my life — and produced a greasy 
pocket-book, out of which he took Richard’s bank- 
note, and ten quite new ones, and I noticed there 
were more left (so that poverty was not his excuse 
for fraud). 

“ Let me look at ’em against the sun,” said the 
farmer, “ to see as the water-mark is all right.” 

This was a precaution I should never have thought 
of, and it gave me for the first time a sense of the 
great intelligence of my father’s parishioner. 

“ Yes ; they’re all correct. And now you may go, 
but if ever you show your face again on Southick 
(South wick) race-course it will be the worst for you.” 

He slunk away, and we returned to Richard, who 
was sitting on the ground, looking at his nose, which 
was bleeding, and had attained vast dimensions. 

“Did you get the money? ” were his first words, 
which I thought very characteristic. 

“ Yes, there it is, squire — ten fivers and your own 
note.” 

“ Very good ; I should never have seen a shilling 
of it but for you and Charley, sowe will just divide 
it into three shares.” 

The farmer said “ No,” but eventually took his 
£16 13s. 4d., and quite right too. Of course I did 


A FAITHFUL RETAINER . 


31 


not take Richard’s money, but he afterward bought 
me a rifle with it, which I could not refuse. The 
farmer, as may be well imagined, could be trusted 
to say nothing of our adventure ; but it was impos- 
sible to hide Richard’s nose. He was far too honest 
a fellow to tell a lie about it, and the whole story 
came out. His father was dreadfully shocked at it, 
and Lady J ane in despair — the one about his gamb- 
ling propensities, and the other about his nose ; she 
thought if the injury did not prove fatal he would 
be disfigured for life. 

He was well in a week, but the circumstances had 
the gravest consequences. It was decided that some- 
thing must be done with the heir of the Luscombes 
to wean him from low company (this was not me, 
but grooms and racing people), but even this pre- 
dilection was ascribed in part to his fragile consti- 
tution. A fashionable physician came down from 
London to consider the case. He could not quite 
be brought to the point desired by Lady Jane, to 
lay Richard’s love of gambling at the door of the 
delicacy of his lungs ; but he was brought very near 
it. The young fellow, his “ opinion ” was, had been 
brought up too much like a hot-house flower ; his 
tastes were what they were chiefly because he had 
no opportunities of forming better ones ; with im- 
proved strength his moral nature would become more 
elevated. That he was truthful was a great source 
of satisfaction (this was with reference to his dis- 
tinct refusal to give up gambling to please anybody) 
and a most wholesome physical sign. “ My recom- 


32 


A FAITHFUL RETAINER. 


mendation is that he should be temporarily removed 
from his present dull * surroundings ; there is not 
scope in them for his mind ; he should be sent 
abroad for a month or two with his tutor. That will 
do him a world of good.” 

If it was not very good advice, it was probably 
quite as judicious as other “ opinions ” for which a 
hundred and fifty guineas have been cheerfully paid. 
It was at all events a great comfort to hear that 
there was nothing constitutionally wrong with “ dear- 
est Richard,” and that he only wanted a tonic for 
mind and body. The doctor’s verdict was accepted 
by both parents, but there was an insurmountable 
obstacle to its being carried into effect in Master 
Richard himself. My father could not leave his 
parish and his family, and with no other tutor could 
the young gentleman be induced to go. 

Now, it happened that the butler at the Court, 
John Maitland, who, as is often the case in such 
households, had the gravity and dignity of a bishop, 
was so fortunate as to be a favorite both with the old 
folks and the young one. He really was a superior 
person, and not only “ honest as the day” in Rich- 
ard’s eyes (which, as we have seen, was not a guaran- 
tee of straightforwardness), but in those of everyone 
else. He had been born in the village ; had been 
page to Mr. Luscombe’s father, and had lived more 
than fifty years at the Court. The relations between 
master and servant were feudal, mingled with the 
more modern attachment that comes of good ser- 
vice properly appreciated. He thought the Lus- 


A FAITHFUL RETAINER. 


33 


combes, if not the only old family in the world, the 
best, and worshipped — though in a dignified and 
ecclesiastical manner — the ground trodden on both 
by the squire and Master Richard. My own impres- 
sion was that under pretence of giving way to the 
latter he played into the parental hands ; but as this 
was certainly for my young friend’s good, I never 
communicated my suspicions to him. Maitland, at 
all events, had more influence over him than any 
man except my father. Still it astonished us all not 
a little, notwithstanding the high opinion we enter- 
tained of him, when w r e heard that the butler was 
to be entrusted with the guardianship of Richard 
abroad. Such a thing could not have happened in 
any other family, but so it was arranged ; and partly 
as valet, partly as confidential companion and treas- 
urer, Maitland started with his young master on his 
travels. 

These were to last for not less than six months, 
and Italy, because of its warm climate, was the 
country to which they were bound. That it would 
do the young fellow good, both moral and physical, 
we all hoped ; but my father had his doubts. He 
feared that Maitland’s influence over his companion 
would wane when away from the Court ; but it never 
entered into his mind that he would willingly permit 
of any wrongdoing, and still less that the man would 
himself succumb to any temptation that involved 
dishonesty. 

They travelled by easy stages ; though they used 
the railway, of course, they did so only for a few 
3 


34 


A FAITHFUL RETAINER. 


hours a day, and got out and remained at places of 
interest. Richard was very amenable, and indeed 
showed no desire for dissipation ; his one weakness 
— that of having a “spec ” — had no opportunity of 
being gratified, and Maitland wrote home the most 
gratifying letters, not only respecting the behaviour 
of his charge, but of the improvement in his health. 
As they drew nearer to Italy, Richard observed one 
day that he should spend a day or two at Monte 
Carlo. Maitland had never heard of the place or of 
its peculiar attractions ; and u Master Richard ” only 
told him that it was very picturesque. The horror 
of the faithful retainer may therefore be imagined 
when he found that it was a gambling resort. 

He could not prevent his young master frequent- 
ing the tables, and though he kept the purse, with 
the exception of a few pounds, and would certainly 
have stood between him and ruin, he could not pre- 
vent his winning. Richard had the luck, and more, 
that proverbially attends young people — he had the 
luck of the devil; his few napoleons swelled to a 
great many on the very first day, and he was in the 
seventh heaven of happiness. The next day and the 
next he won largely — immensely ; in vain Maitland 
threatened to write to his father, and even to leave 
him. 

“ All right,” replied the reckless youth. “ You 
may do as you like ; even if the governor disinherits 
me I can make my fortune by stopping here : and 
as to leaving me, go by all means ; I shall get on 
very well with a French valet.” 


A FAITHFUL RETAINER. 


35 


It was dreadful. 

Richard grew happier and happier every day, as 
the golden flood flowed in upon him ; but also ex- 
tremely hectic. He passed the whole day at the 
tables, and the want of air and exercise, and, still 
more, the intense excitement which possessed him, 
began to have the most serious effect. That pre- 
scription of “ seeing the world,” and “ escaping from 
his dull surroundings,” was having a very different 
result from what had been expected. “The paths 
of glory lead but to the grave ; ” the young English- 
man and his luck were the talk of all Monte Carlo, 
and he enjoyed his notoriety very much ; but, as 
the poor butler plaintively observed, what was the 
good of that when Master Richard was “ killing 
hisself ? ” 

How the news was received at the Court I had no 
means of judging, for the squire kept a rigid silence, 
except that he had long conferences with my father ; 
and Lady Jane kept her room ; it was indeed a very 
sore subject. The squire wanted to start for Monte 
Carlo at once ; but he was singularly insular, detested 
travel, and in truth was very unfit for such a “ cut- 
ting out expedition ” as was contemplated. He 
waited, half out of his mind with anxiety, but in 
hopes of a better report ; what he hoped for was 
that luck would turn, and Richard lose every 
shilling. 

The very reverse of this, however, took place ; 
Richard won more and more. He would come home 
to his hotel in the evening with a porter carrying 


36 


A FAITHFUL RETAINER. 


his gains. His portmanteau was full of napoleons. 
It was characteristic of him that he never thought 
of banking it. One evening he came in with very 
bright eyes, but a most shrunken and cadaverous 
face. 

“ This has been my best day of all, Johnny,” he 
said. “ See, I have won two thousand pounds ; and 
you shall have a hundred of it.” 

But Maitland refused to have anything to do with 
such ill-gotten gains, for which, too, his young master 
was sacrificing his health, and perhaps his life. Still 
— though this did not strike Richard till afterward — 
he could not help regarding the great heap of gold 
with considerable interest. Added to the lad’s pre- 
vious gains, the amount was now very large indeed — 
more than five thousand pounds. 

“ I should really think, Master Richard, as you had 
now won enough.” 

“ Enough ? Certainly not. I have not broken 
the bank yet. I mean to do that before I’ve done 
with it, Johnny.” 

“ That will be after you’ve killed yourself,” said 
honest John. 

“Well, then I shall die rich ,” was the reckless 
rejoinder. 

Richard who was too exhausted for repose, tossed 
and tumbled on his bed for hours, and eventually 
dropped into a heavy slumber, and slept far into the 
next morning. He awoke feeling very unwell, but 
his chief anxiety was lest he should miss the open- 
ing of the tables ; he w^as always the first to begin. 


A FAITHFUL RETAINER. 


37 


He rang his bell violently for Maitland. There was 
no reply, and when he rang again, one of the hotel 
servants came up. 

“ Where is my man? ” he inquired. 

“Monsieur’s man-servant took monsieur’s luggage 
to the railway-station ; he is gone by the early train 
to Turin.” 

“ Gone to Turin with my luggage ? ” 

“ Yes, with the two portmanteaus — very heavy 
ones.” 

Richard got out of bed, and dragged his weary 
limbs into the dressing-room, an inner apartment 
where the portmanteaus were kept for safety. They 
were both gone. 

“ What train did the scoundrel go by ? Where 
is my watch ? Why, the villain has taken that too ! 
Send for the# police ! No ; there is no time to be 
lost — send a telegram. Why, he has not even left 
me enough money to pay a telegram ! ” 

All his small change was gone. Honest John had 
taken everything ; he had not left his young master 
a single sixpence. At this revelation of the state of 
affairs, poor Richard, weakened as he was by his 
long excitement, threw himself on the bed and burst 
into tears. The attendant, to whom, as usual, he 
had been liberal, was affected by an emotion so 
strange in an Englishman. 

“ Monsieur must not fret ; the thief will be caught 
and the money restored. It would be well, perhaps, 
to tell the maitre d’hotel.” 

The master of the hotel appeared with a very 


38 


A FAITHFUL RETAINER. 


grave face. He was desolated to hear of the mis- 
fortune that had befallen his young guest. Perhaps 
there was not quite so much taken as had been re- 
ported. 

“ I tell you it’s all gone ; more than £5,000, and 
my watch and chain ; I have not half a franc in my 
possession.” 

“ That is unfortunate indeed,” said the maitre 
d’hotel, looking graver than ever, “ because there is 
my bill to settle.” 

“ Oh, hang your bill ! ” cried Richard. “ That 
will be all right. I must telegraph to my father at 
once.” 

“ But how is monsieur to telegraph if he has no 
money ? ” 

It was probably the first time in his life that the 
young fellow had ever understood how inconvenient 
a thing is poverty. What also amazed him beyond 
measure was the man’s manner ; yesterday, and all 
other days, it had been polite to obsequiousness ; 
now it was dry almost to insolence. It seemed, in- 
deed, to imply some doubt of the bona-fides of his 
guest — that he might not, in short, be much better 
than honest John himself, of whom he was possibly 
the confederate ; that the whole story was a trumped- 
up one to account for the inability to meet his bill. 
As to his having won largely at the tables, that 
might be true enough ; but he also might have lost 
it all, and more with it ; money changes hands at 
Monte Carlo very rapidly. 

In the end, however, and not without much objec- 


A FAITHFUL RETAINER . 


39 


tion, the landlord advanced a sufficient sum to en- 
able Richard to telegraph home. He also permitted 
him to stay on at the hotel, stipulating, however, 
that he should call for no wine, nor indulge in 
anything expensive — : a humiliating arrangement 
enough, but not so much so as the terms of another 
proviso, that he was never to enter the gambling 
saloon, or go beyond the public gardens. Even 
there he was under surveillance, and it was, in 
short, quite clear that he was suspected of an in- 
tention to run away without paying his bill — per- 
haps even of joining his “ confederate,” Mr. John 
Maitland. 

The only thing that comforted Richard was the 
conviction that he should have a remittance from 
his father in a few hours ; but nothing of the sort, 
not even a telegram, arrived. Day after day went 
by, and the young fellow was in despair; he felt 
like a pariah, for he had been so occupied with the 
tables that he had made no friends ; and his few 
acquaintances looked askance at him, as being under 
a cloud, with the precise nature of which they were 
unacquainted. Friendless and penniless in a foreign 
land, his spirit was utterly broken, and he began to 
understand what a fool he had made of himself ; 
especially how ungratefully he had behaved to his 
father, without whom it was not so easy to “get 
on,” it appeared, as he had imagined. He saw, too, 
the evil of his conduct in having thrust a temptation 
in the way of honest John too great to be resisted. 
The police could hear no news of him, and indeed, 


40 


A FAITHFUL RETAINER. 


seemed very incredulous with respect to Richard’s 
account of the matter. 

On the fourth day Richard received a letter from 
his father of the gravest kind, though expressed in 
the most affectionate terms. He hardly alluded to 
the immediate misfortune that had happened to 
him, but spoke of the anxiety and alarm which his 
conduct had caused his mother and himself. “I 
enclose you a check,” he wrote, “ just sufficient to 
comfortably bring you home and pay your hotel bill, 
and exceedingly regret that I cannot trust my son 
with more — lest he should risk it in a way that gives 
his mother and myself more distress of mind than I 
can express.” 

Richard’s heart was touched, as it well might 
have been ; though, perhaps, the condition of mind 
in which his father’s communication found him had 
something to do with it. By that night’s mail he 
despatched a letter home which gave the greatest 
delight at the Court, and also at the Yicarage, for 
Mr. Luscombe, full of pride and joy, brought it to 
my father to read. “ I have been very foolish, sir, 
and very wicked,” it ran. “ I believe I should have 
been dead by this time had not Maitland stolen my 
money (so that I have no reason to feel very angry 
with him), and deprived me of the means of suicide. 
I give you my word of honor that I will never 
gamble again.” 

Lady Jane sent a telegram to meet Mr. Richard 
in Paris to say what a dear good boy he was, and 
how happy he had made her. This did not surprise 


A FAITHFUL RETAINER. 


41 


him, but what did astonish him very much on arriv- 
ing at the Court was that J ohn Maitland opened the 
door for him. 

“ Why, you old scoundrel ! ” 

“ Yes, sir, I know ; I’m a thief and all that, but I 
did it for the best ; I did, indeed.” 

Though the fatted calf was killed for Master 
Richard, he had by no means returned like the 
Prodigal Son. On the contrary, lie had sent home 
a remittance, as it were, by the butler of more than 
<£5,000. The whole plot had been devised by honest 
John as the only method of extricating Master 
Richard from that Monte Carlo spider’s web, and 
had been carried out by the help of the maitre 
d’hotel, with the squire’s approval. And to do the 
young fellow justice, he never resented the trick that 
had been played upon him. 

Richard was not sent abroad again, but to Cam- 
bridge, where eventually he took a fourth class (poll) 
degree ; and Lady Jane was as proud of it as if he 
had been senior wrangler. He kept his word, in 
spite of all temptations to the contrary, and never 
touched a card, a circumstance which drove him to 
take a fair amount of exercise, and, in consequence, 
he steadily improved in health. He was sometimes 
chaffed by his companions for his abstinence from 
play. They should have thought he was the last 
man to be afraid of losing his money. 

“ You are right, so far,” he would answer drily ; 
“ but the fact is, I have had enough of winning.” 

To which they would reply : 


42 


A FAITHFUL RETAINER. 


“ Oh, yes, we dare say,” an elliptical expression 
which conveyed disbelief. 

He never told them the story of his Monte Carlo 
experiences; but in the vacations he would often 
talk to honest John about them. We may be sure 
that that faithful retainer did not go unrewarded for 
his fraudulent act. 


A CLERK’S CONSCIENCE. 


I. 

I was once a “ junior ” in the employment of that 
well-known and extensive firm, Apsley, Wellesley 
& Co., of Comhill. The senior partner was a 
friend of my father, which gave me a better position 
than I should otherwise have occupied ; but I may 
say, without vanity, that I was well worth my “ salt/’ 
or at all events my salary, which was by no means a 
large one. I did not shirk my duties, as it was the 
fashion of some of my fellow-clerks to do, and 
showed myself anxious to “get on.” Of course 
there are different ways of doing this, but when it 
is done without priggism, and, especially, not at the 
expense of others, I have a conviction that it 
generally succeeds. In a long commercial life, I 
have noticed that the man who wastes his time and 
that of his master, who is the last to reach the office, 
and the first to go away, and who flattens his nose 
against the window while he is there, instead of 
sticking to his work, is apt to stick to the stool 
where he first finds himself, and to rise no higher ; 
while the man who does his duty without grudging, 


44 


A CLERICS CONSCIENCE. 


and takes some interest in the firm’s affairs, moves 
np, and if he doesn’t marry his master’s daughter 
and become Lord Mayor of London, in the old story- 
book fashion, still reaps his reward. The grumbler 
of mature years is almost always, in youth, the idler, 
and the gentleman who is always ‘‘unlucky” has 
something besides Misfortune to account for it, 
though he lays all the blame upon that lady. 

Nevertheless, even at one - and - twenty, I was 
neither so vain nor so foolish as to set down old 
Apsley’s favor to me to my own merits. He had 
taken me into his employment to oblige his old 
friend, very likely by no means willingly, and he was 
no doubt agreeably surprised to find me useful to 
him. “ Business is business,” and as a general rule 
(as I have since found, myself) it is better not to 
let sentimental considerations interfere with it, if 
you can help it — which, however, is a pretty large 
“ if.” At all events, our senior partner was as civil 
to his young clerk as was compatible with the great 
gulf between us, and his carefulness to give no cause 
of jealousy to others. He even knew where I lodged 
— itself an immense stretch of interest in any mem- 
ber of the firm as regarded their subordinates — and 
had been so good as to inquire on one occasion 
whether I was comfortably located. Such affability 
won my heart, and unless I had been offered a con- 
siderable rise in salary, I would not have left his 
employment to serve anybody. Still, it did astonish 
me when a footman called at my lodging one evening 
with a note from Mr. Apsley, requesting me, “ if con- 


A CLERK'S CONSCIENCE. 45 

venient,” to come to see him at once at his private 
residence. This was situated in a fashionable 
square, and though I saw little of it that night except 
the old gentleman’s study, or snuggery, whither he 
descended for the interview, I was considerably im- 
pressed with its grandeur. What he wanted me for 
was to take a note upon some important business 
matter to our Mr. Jones, the manager, that night. 

“I don’t know where he lives,” he said, “or I 
would not have troubled you, Ackers.” 

I replied, very truthfully, that the trouble was a 
pleasure (for it is always a good thing to be able to 
oblige one’s chief), and that though I only knew that 
Mr. J ones lived somewhere near Harton, a suburban 
station, I would find him if he was above ground. 

In two minutes I was on my way to the railway, 
and caught the first train to the place in question. 
Though the station was a comparatively small one, 
I foresaw some difficulty in finding the manager, 
who probably lived in a modest way (though he had 
what seemed to me a gigantic salary of <£800 a year), 
for he was a very modest, retiring sort of man, and 
Jones is not an uncommon name. However, I made 
my application to the station-master directly I got 
out. 

“ Do you happen to know where a Mr. Jones lives 
in this neighborhood ? ” 

“Mr. Jones,” he replied; “do you mean Squire 
Jones?” 

“ No,” I said, “ that is not the gentleman ; I want 
Mr. Jones of Cornhill.” 


46 


A CLERK'S CONSCIENCE. 


The station-master shook his head, as though in 
deprecation of all commercial persons ; he said he 
was not acquainted with any person of that name 
except “the squire.” There was nothing 'for it but 
to take a fly to Harton Hall, where it seemed this 
great man lived. If it was not exactly “ a hall,” 
after the country, or rather “county” pattern, it 
was very superior to any “ villa residence.” We were 
admitted by a lodge-keeper through gilded iron 
gates which opened upon park-like and quite exten- 
sive grounds. The longer I took in driving through 
them, the more certain I felt that I was on a fool’s 
errand, and the sight of the mansion itself convinced 
me of it. 

It was of great size, and on that summer night the 
unshuttered windows of the lower rooms emitted a 
blaze of light ; there was evidently a dinner-party, 
or perhaps even a ball going on. I was quite 
ashamed of myself and my errand when my humble 
vehicle drew up at the stately portico, and a footman 
attired like a field-marshal answered the summons 
of the front-door bell. 

“ Does Mr. Jones live here? ” I inquired, hesita- 
tingly ; “ Mr. Jones of Apsley, Wellesley & Co. ? ” 

“Yes, sir.” 

You might have knocked me down with a feather : 
I should have been only a little more surprised to 
hear that this was the country residence of my fel- 
low-clerk, Jack Spriggins, who shared the parlor at 
my lodgings. Though myself almost penniless, I 
came of a good family, and knew the proportion of 


A CLERK'S CONSCIENCE. 


47 


scales of living among landed proprietors, but the 
splendor of that entrance - hall with its statues 
and pictures threw all I had seen elsewhere of the 
kind into the shade ; in particular it struck me 
how very much grander it was than my employer’s 
entrance-hall, in which I had stood but an hour 
ago. 

I gave my card to the footman, and was ushered 
into a side-room, the fittings and furniture of which 
threw Mr. Apsley’s “ snuggery ” completely into the 
shade. It was more like a boudoir than a room used 
for business purposes, though I recognized Mr. 
Jones’s little black bag lying in one corner of it, and 
also his letter-case upon a marble table. In the few 
seconds that it took me to observe these things, 
there was a constant clatter of knives and forks, and 
hum of conversation from the dining-room, on the 
other side of the hall ; it was evidently a very large 
dinner-party, yet the host did not hesitate to leave 
it on the instant that the servant brought him in my 
card. It seemed to me almost impossible that he 
could have been with me so soon, yet there he was, 
looking in his evening dress as I had never seen him 
before, but with a much greater change in him than 
that ; the manager’s face was ghastly pale ; there 
was a dew upon it for which the warmth of the even- 
ing could hardly account, while the expression of 
his little gray eyes was anxious and perturbed to the 
last degree. 

“ This is an unexpected pleasure, Mr. Ackers,” he 
said, in a voice of unmistakable expectation and 


48 


A CLERICS CONSCIENCE. 


alarm. “ What is it ? Nothing wrong, I hope, with 
Mr. Apsley ? ” 

I suppose it was my slight connection with the 
senior partner that suggested this apprehension, for 
it would have been more natural, as it struck me, 
for him to say, “nothing wrong at the office.” 

“ I cannot say, sir,” I replied ; “ but Mr. Apsley 
sent me over with this letter to you, which he said 
was of extreme importance.” 

The manager took the letter, and tore it open with 
a haste I had never seen him use ; he was a very 
slow, methodical man, and took everything in gen- 
eral very quietly. Directly he had read the letter 
his ordinary manner returned to him. 

“ There is nothing here requiring such immediate 
haste, I think, but, of course, tell Mr. Apsley it shall 
be attended to at once. Mr. — that is, the gentle- 
man he alludes to — shall hear from me by to-night’s 
post. I have a few friends to dinner, Mr. Ackers, 
though, as you are not in evening dress, you may 
not care to join them ; but you must, at all events, 
have a glass of wine.” 

This I declined, and he did not press it ; though 
perfectly civil, indeed much more conciliatory in his 
manner than I had ever known him to be, for it was 
always cold and reserved, he was obviously glad to 
get rid of me. As a host detained from his guests 
this was not to be wondered at ; but the impression 
it left upon me was very unpleasant. 

As I passed into the hall the ladies were leaving 
the dining-room ; six or eight of them, all beauti- 


A CLERK'S CONSCIENCE. 


49 


fully dressed, trooped up the staircase without per- 
ceiving our presence, but the last one, the lady of 
the house, caught sight of us, and looked surprised. 
She was a very handsome woman, half a head taller 
and considerably larger than Mr. Jones, and her 
voice, though musical enough, had a touch of im- 
periousness in it as she inquired what was detain- 
ing him. 

“My young friend, Mr. Ackers,” he explained, 
“ has been so good as to bring me an important let- 
ter from Comhill.” 

“ Oh, the office,” she answered, contemptuously, 
and without taking the least notice of her husband’s 
introduction, she followed her guests up the stairs. 

As I drove away to the station, it seemed to me 
like awakening from a sort of splendid nightmare ; 
was it possible that Squire Jones could really be 
one with our most respectable but very unassuming 
manager ? Could that virago in lace and satin be 
his wife ? 


H. 

Looking back on that strange experience from my 
present standpoint, I am conscious that the lady’s be- 
havior affected my view of Mr. Jones’s position in- 
juriously. My suspicions of him would have been 
aroused in any case, but the insolence with which 
his helpmate had treated me made me jump to the 
conclusion that there was a screw loose somewhere. 
It was very illogical, for the lady’s conduct had at 
4 


50 


A CLERK'S CONSCIENCE. 


least shown that she was not afraid of me, or of any 
account I was likely to give of my visit to Harton , 
but I was too put out by it to draw conclusions of 
that kind. It was bad enough that people should 
be purse-proud who were really rich, but that the 
wife of a man with £800 a year, who was living at 
the rate of £8,000, should give herself airs was in- 
tolerable. 

Of the reckless extravagance of our manager’s 
mode of life there could, indeed, be no question, un- 
less his wife had been an heiress, in which case it 
was to the last degree unlikely that she would have 
married Mr. Jones ; but a much more painful sus- 
picion had taken hold of me. I could not forget the 
consternation he had exhibited upon seeing me, his 
feverish anxiety to know the errand on which I had 
come, and his evident relief when the contents of 
Mr. Apsley’s letter had informed him of it. That he 
expected something of a far graver nature I was con- 
vinced. As I sat in the railway carriage alone — in 
a first-class compartment, of course, as was only 
right when travelling on the business of the firm, 
which, of course, paid the “ exes ” — and reflected 
upon the whole situation, I felt that it was in truth 
a serious one. There was no question as to what it 
was my interest to do ; when I presently saw Mr. 
Apsley — he had told me to call, no matter how late 
the hour, in order to assure him that his directions 
had been attended to — I might make a clean breast 
to him, not only of my late experiences, but of my 
suspicions. “ What I tell you, sir,” I might say, 


A CLERK'S CONSCIENCE. 


51 


“ I tell you in confidence ; but it is my conviction 
that there is something wrong with Mr. Jones.” 

Even if I had misjudged the manager, this would 
do me no harm, and if I was right I should have a 
claim upon the firm which they could hardly ignore. 
It was clear to me that was the most profitable 
course to take ; but in what direction lay my duty ? 
I had no regard for Mr. J ones whatever ; indeed, I 
rather disliked him ; he was less like a man in the 
office than a machine (though out of it it seemed he 
was “human enough”), and showed no sympathy 
for any of us. But was it my business to ruin him ? 
The notion of telling tales “ out of school ” was 
hateful to me as to all young fellows of decent feel- 
ing ; and, besides (though that was not so com- 
mendable), I had a notion that a firm which makes 
tens of thousands a year is in a position to take care 
of itself. I had not at that time that sympathy 
with well-to-do persons which, I am thankful to say, 
circumstances have since developed in me. 

On the other hand, Mr. Apsley was not only my 
father’s friend, but to a certain extent, and accord- 
ing to his lights (though they were rather dim ones), 
had been my friend. Was it right, entertaining 
such suspicions as I did, and which so nearly af- 
fected the well-being of the firm I served, that I 
should keep silence about them ? 

Some philosophers hold that conscience, properly 
consulted, is an unerring guide for conduct ; but, 
perhaps, from want of practice, I did not consult 
her properly ; at all events, I was puzzled how to 


52 


A CLERK'S CONSCIENCE. 


act. I think, if it had not been for Mrs. Jones, I 
should not have said a word about the matter. If 
there had been a Miss Jones at Harton Hall, of nice 
manners and appearance, I feel sure I should have 
been silent. Think of bringing misfortune, and 
perhaps disgrace, upon an innocent girl ! Upon the 
whole I resolved to adopt a middle course. I would 
simply tell my story — more or less of it as circum- 
stances should demand — without any comment of 
my own, and leave my employer to draw his own 
conclusions. It was not a very high-principled 
plan, perhaps — it was certainly a compromise ; but 
I am writing of a thing that actually occurred, and 
have set down the conclusion I arrived at to its real 
motives. They might have been more high-prin- 
cipled, but I still think they were not base. 

It was eleven o’clock when I reached Mr. Apsley’s 
door. I was shown in, as before, to his study, and 
found him there, smoking a cigar. Though evidently 
pleased to see me, he did not ask me to have one. 
If he had done so, matters might have turned out 
differently, perhaps. Geniality in an employer goes 
a great way, like a smile from royalty ; but it was 
not in him. 

“ Well, you gave the manager my letter ? ” he in- 
quired, sharply. 

“ Yes, sir ; he said the matter should be attended 
to to-night.” 

“That’s well. You have been very expeditious, 
Mr. Ackers ; I suppose you had no difficulty in find- 
ing out Mr. Jones ? ” 


A CLERK'S CONSCIENCE. 


53 


It was evident he had no interest in the subject, 
and only mentioned it to avoid the discourtesy of 
dismissing me at once. 

“ No, sir, none at all ; he was living, indeed, in 
the best house in the place.” 

“ Ay, ay ! He has a good house, has he ? Any 
grounds about it ? ” Here he yawned. 

“Yes, sir; indeed, the house stands almost in a 
park.” 

“Really! all these suburban places boast of some- 
thing of the kind. Holland Park began it.” 

I saw that he was getting very wide of the mark ; 
but this made it all the harder for me to tell my 
story with any significance at all. 

“ I should think it stood in not less than five acres 
of ground. It was called Harton Hall.” 

“ You don’t say so ; well done, Jones ! ” Mr. 
Apsley seemed really amused. “I’ll ask him to- 
morrow how they all are at the hall.” 

“ I beg your pardon, sir,” I said, “ but I do hope 
vou will not do that. It will make him think ill of 
me.” 

“ To be sure, he may compare you to the spy that 
discovered the land flowing with milk and honey. 
And yet why should it not flow ? Jones has been 
thirty years with us, and I dare say has had many 
good things put in his way. Why shouldn’t he call 
his house a hall if he likes ? ” 

“Why, indeed, sir, so far as I am concerned?” 
I replied, dryly, for I was very much chagrined at 
being thus treated like a child. It was now quite 


54 


A CLERK'S CONSCIENCE. 


clear to me that no hint — short of a direct statement 
of my suspicions — would have any effect upon Mr. 
Apsley’s mind ; and I was sincerely glad of it. The 
pendulum of my sympathies had swung round to 
Jones’s side. My employer’s manner had certainly 
not been encouraging ; it was less so than ever after 
my last reply. 

“ It is growing late, and you must be tired, Mr. 
Ackers ; will you have a glass of wine ? ” 

I declined his offer as I had declined Mr. Jones’s, 
for the hospitality of neither gentleman had been 
very pressing, and backed out of the room. 

I felt much relieved that matters were thus ended ; 
but though I doubt whether I should have taken my 
opportunity even if it had offered itself, I was con- 
scious that the whole affair had somehow fizzled out. 
If I had denounced the manager, I should probably 
by this time have been agonized by remorse ; if I 
had said nothing of the position in which I had found 
him, I should have been reproaching myself, no 
doubt, with disloyalty to my employers ; but now 
that I had taken the middle course, it seemed 
something ridiculous, and, indeed, contemptible. 
When I got home and found Spriggins with his 
pipe, wakeful and inquisitive, I felt not the least 
temptation to tell him anything about “what old 
Apsley had sent for me about.” 

I said “ it was a private matter,” which made him 
wild with curiosity, and my refusal to gratify it 
caused a quarrel between us. My expedition to 
Harton may have had its dramatic attractions, but 


A CLERK'S CONSCIENCE. 


55 


from a social point of view it certainly did not seem 
to have been a success. The next morning, when I 
saw our manager in his business coat totting up the 
accounts as usual, I could hardly believe him to be 
the “ Squire Jones ” I had called upon not twelve 
hours before. He made not the smallest allusion 
to my visit ; nor did Mr. Apsley to the errand on 
which he had sent me. 

There happened to be great excitement at the 
office that morning, consequent on the resignation 
of Mr. Roberts, the third clerk, who (lucky dog !) 
had “ come in for money,” and it whirled Spriggins 
away with it like the rest. He forgot all about our 
last night’s quarrel and my injurious treatment of 
him. 

The unwonted agitation of the previous evening 
had had its effects, I suppose, upon my nerves, for 
I had a splitting headache, which grew worse and 
worse ; and upon that plea, which I do not remember 
to have ever used before, I obtained leave of absence 
from my immediate chief, and went home to bed. 
I slept for some hours, and on awaking, much re- 
freshed, found Spriggins standing by my bedside. 

“ Sorry to disturb you, old fellow,” he said, “but 
I am fairly bursting with intelligence” (he meant 
information ; the other thing was incredible). 
“ There’s been such a scrimmage at the office as 
was never heard of. J ones has bolted ! ” 

“ Bolted ? The manager ? Then he’s got away ? ” 

“ Well, yes, for the present ; though I don’t think 
the firm will be so gratified about that as you seem 


56 


A CLERK' S CONSCIENCE. 


to be. However, he missed his tip this time as 
regards the swag- — 

“Do, for Heaven’s sake, speak English! What 
tip? What swag ? ” 

“ To be sure, you have been asleep, while I’ve 
been talking about nothing else for the last three 
hours. There are defalcations — <£50,000, they say — 
extending over a long series of years; but there 
would have been £10,000 more gone — all negotiable 
securities — but for tlieir opening the safe, where 
they were found neatly made up to go in his bag 
this very night : you remember his black bag?” 

I nodded eagerly, but with a sinking sensation 
too ; I knew more about Jones than Spriggins did; 
the catastrophe seemed to have something personal 
as well as shocking about it. As I sat up in bed, I 
saw the bag lying in the corner of that gorgeous 
room at Harton Hall ; I heard the clatter of talk 
from the dining-room ; I saw the ladies trailing their 
fine dresses up the stairs ; and I heard once more 
Mrs. Jones’s contemptuous voice saying, “Oh, from 
the office!” 

“They found it out while he was at lunch, and 
the detectives sat in his room with the warrant for 
him, only he never came back. The old fellow 
smelt a rat, I suppose.” 

I think this highly probable. I think he read 
something he was looking for in my face that morn- 
ing, and, coupling it with my unusual disappearance 
(for he had asked for me, it seemed), had decided as 
he sat over his chop at the eating-house that he had 


A CLERK'S CONSCIENCE. 


57 


better be off at once. To take the bag away with 
him at that early hour would have brought suspicion, 
if suspicion there was, to a head immediately. He 
did not dare to risk it, and in his case the better 
part of valor had certainly been discretion; for 
five minutes of such valor would have cost him five 
years’ penal servitude. He was never seen again in 
England. 

Ten days afterward or so I was summoned from 
my desk to the partner’s parlor. It was not gener- 
ally a pleasant invitation, but rather resembled 
what is called at Cambridge being “ convened ; ” to a 
guilty conscience it meant something very serious, 
but though my conscience may be thought peculiar, 
it was not a guilty one. 

There were four partners whom I scarcely knew 
by sight, and Mr. Apsley, who completed the quo- 
rum and was the speaker. 

“ Mr. Ackers, we have sent for you to congratulate 
you upon your conduct the other night with respect 
to our late manager. You showed yourself aware of 
what was due to one who had held a position of trust 
with us for many years, and also to your employers’ 
interests. You said neither more nor less than you 
ought to have said. If nothing was wrong with him, 
you did him no harm ; if there was anything amiss, 
you put us on our guard. It is owing to you that 
certain very grievous losses incurred through this 
man’s dishonesty, and of which we had had hitherto 
no clue, have not been very seriously increased. I 
am instructed by the firm to thank you ” (here four 


58 


A CLERK'S CONSCIENCE. 


most respectable beads bowed to me affably). “ It 
is very unusual to find so young a man endowed 
with such discretion. You will take Mr. Eoberts’s 
place as third clerk in this establishment. Good- 
morning.” 

It was a very pleasant quarter of an hour. What 
I have often thought of since was the astuteness 
with which that excellent old gentleman concealed 
from me that night the suspicions which I myself 
had awakened. He, of course, perceived the neces- 
sity of not arousing those of Mr. Jones, by commu- 
nicating them to me. Another thing which has 
always puzzled me is my own behavior on that 
occasion ; my conscience was clearly commendable, 
since its workings were so well rewarded ; but how 
very near it was to going wrong in, so to speak, 
both ways ! 

It strikes me as having been more professional 
than moral or philosophical — what we may call a 
clerk’s conscience, though scarcely that of a clerk in 
holy orders. 


AUNT SUE’S PANIC. 


Did you ever see a dwelling-house the outside of 
which evokes such notes of admiration as “How 
charming ! ” “ How sweetly pretty ! ” “ How pic- 
turesque ! ” from every passer-by, that is not in its 
interior arrangements the very reverse of charming? 
I have lived in a cottage smothered in roses, swathed 
in jessamine, and with honeysuckle tapping at every 
window-pane on the upper floor, with a gabled porch 
that the wistaria has made a bower of blossom, and 
the tout ensemble of which has caused many a travel- 
ling artist to pause upon his way, and transfer it to 
canvas ; but while I have resided in that earthly par- 
adise, I have never known what comfort is. Nay, I 
have been a guest in lordly mansions, “ royal, rich, 
and wide,” to which sightseers come upon appointed 
days, and are shown through “ the state apartments ” 
by a stately housekeeper, who exhibits to their wide- 
eyed curiosity the room where his Sacred Majesty, 
the First Charles, pillowed his head while it was 
yet upon his shoulders, and the apartment where 
Queen Bess might have been seen by early zephyrs 
without her ruff — mansions where eighty beds are 
made up on occasion, and every visitor sticks his 
card outside his door, so that, in case of fire, as I 


60 


AUNT SUE’S PANIC. 


suppose, it may be known exactly who is to be suc- 
cored first, according to his rank and station — - 
where the list of guests is printed in the hall, and in 
every room hangs up a “ notice ” of the unalterable 
hours for meals and prayers. Pictures of “inte- 
riors ” of such dwellings are to be seen in every 
great collection, labelled “The Corridor at Coucy 
Castle,” “ The Great Staircase,” “ The Private 
Chapel ” (with its Grinling Gibbons carvings), and 
perhaps even “ The Haunted Chamber.” The pic- 
turesqueness of these spots is as patent as is their 
grandeur, but their excessive inconvenience is even 
more undeniable than either. The latticed windows 
do not open wide enough ; the oaken doors do not 
thoroughly close ; the tapestried walls are mouldly 
and insect-riddled, and the whole atmosphere is 
stuffy and stifling. To be lord of such a residence 
is to be king of a county, and gives one a thousand 
privileges ; but the home comforts of his lordship’s 
steward at Victoria Villa, Newtown (an erection 
about as picturesque as the parish workhouse), are 
infinitely greater. He has at least fresh air and 
abundance of light, which at Coucy Castle are un- 
attainable. And what is true of dwelling-houses is 
true, though in a less degree, of whole localities : the 
picturesqueness of them is always in inverse propor- 
tion to the convenience. It seems, indeed, well-nigh 
impossible to attain both advantages. The most 
beautiful spot in England is, for example, Clovelly, 
North Devon, made familiar to every reader by 
Kingsley’s “Westward Ho.” The view afforded 


AUNT SUE'S PANIC. 


61 


from tlie village is not extensive, but it includes 
almost every element of natural beauty. On the 
west, the sea, down to which its single street descends 
so steeply that no wheeled conveyance, nor even 
horses’ hoofs, may traverse it, and a small but 
strongly built harbor, where the fishing boats toss 
and tumble, or lie stranded on their sides, according 
as the tide is in or out. On the north and east, 
“wood overhanging wood, like cloud on cloud,” and 
crowding to the cliff-tops, against whose bases the 
Atlantic wave forever beats and foams. Nothing 
but these objects — which for beauty, indeed, are all 
sufficient — is to be seen by those who sojourn in 
Clovelly : these and a little strip of sky. The 
houses are too near their opposite neighbors to 
admit of more extensive vision. A noble park, how- 
ever, stretches to southward ; and beyond it, head- 
land after headland, till the last of England’s soil 
yields to the sea, and the knowledge of their prox- 
imity seems to fill up the measure of delight to 
those who gaze and glot upon the present treasures. 
It is fair here, surpassing fair, but would be fair 
there also. There is no apprehension of overstep- 
ping the barrier of home beauties, and coming upon 
anything barren. 

The houses in this little town are themselves 
most picturesque and pleasant — to the eye, at least ; 
and each of them, if not from porch or window, still 
from some crack or cranny familiar to its inmates, 
commands the field in which all tenants of the place 
are laborers — the ocean. Whatever little coign and 


62 


AUNT SUE'S PANIC. 


vantage-ground of space there is beyond what is 
occupied by their dwellings and the narrow street, 
is filled with flowers ; but in the centre of the village, 
at the beginning of the winding steps that lead down 
to the harbor, there is a vacant spot, in which is 
placed a long low seat, where all that have toiled up 
the steps may stop and rest, and where, in the calm 
eves, when toil is done, men come and sit, while the 
moon mounts the sky, and pours her splendor over 
wood and wave. The village dwellings are of the 
humblest kind ; and even the little inn which lords 
it over them, as being twice the size of any of its 
neighbors, is such as the fashionable, or even com- 
mercial, traveller may deem but a sorry resting- 
place; to others, however, of a more imaginative 
type, it will afford a richer accommodation than 
many a so-called “hotel.” Its little rooms are fur- 
nished with rare china and curious ornaments, 
“ picked up ” by the Clovelly men (who are all sail- 
ors) in many a distant land ; and its fare, if plain, is 
of the best : the thickest cream, the freshest eggs, 
fish straight from the net, and such a store of jams, 
home-made, as makes the mouth water with the re- 
membrance of them. 

And yet in this earthly paradise the trail of the 
serpent is over all, in a certain “ ancient and fish-like 
smell,” which pervades the whole lovely scene, and 
distracts one’s thoughts from its marvellous beauty. 
The ocean-breeze itself, as it comes up the woody 
cleft, is often tainted by it, and by the time it reaches 
one, speaks of the finny denizens of the pathless 


AUNT SUE’S PANIC. 


63 


deep rather than of the deep itself, with its briny- 
freshness and cool cavernous cells. When there is 
no breeze, and the noonday sun beats down on the 
quaint village, which, notwithstanding its narrowness 
and the shade of the environing woods, it does with 
pitiless force, the case is greatly worse. The un- 
happy visitor likens himself to one in a hot-bed, and 
a hot-bed of no very savory materials. 

“ Good heavens ! ” said I to my nephew, Frank 
Hotham, the artist, as we sat together at the window 
of the little inn, during such a noonday as I have 
described, glutting the eye indeed with a noble feast, 
but much at the expense of our olfactory organs — 
“ Good heavens ! suppose any epidemic was to 
break out in this Eden here, not a soul would es- 
cape it ! ” 

It was said without reflection, for Frank had his 
young wife and only child with him ; whereas I, an 
old maid with no “ ties,” had but my own safety to 
look to, and directly I had uttered the remark, I re- 
gretted it. 

“ By Jove ! ” said he, with sudden nervousness, 
“ I never thought of that, Aunt Sue ; and there’s not 
a doctor within five miles, I am told. Not that a 
doctor would avail one much, shut up in this cloven 
ravine without a breath of air. And there’s small- 
pox about too — isn’t there ? ” 

I hastened to say that I had never heard as much, 
as indeed I had not. If Frank had done so, the 
news had probably “ gone in at one ear and out at 
another ” with him, as most things did which were 


64 


AUNT SUE'S PANIC. 


not connected with his “ art,” as he called it. He 
was a really excellent landscape painter, but his de- 
votion to his profession was a very serious nuisance 
to those who had to listen to his dissertations upon 
it. It was necessary not only to admire what he 
admired, but for the same identical reasons ; and it 
was even still more obligatory to despise what he 
despised. If lawyers talked of law, authors of 
literature, or soldiers of war, in the same vague yet 
dogmatic style in which painters speak of painting, 
conversation^ would become impossible. Frank sel- 
dom escaped from his “ shop,” and compelled you 
to take his goods whether you would or not ; but 
when he did escape, he was charming. Lucy and 
he were the handsomest young couple I have ever 
seen, and were devoted to one another, and to Baba. 
Baba was their little boy, just four years old, and 
their idol. I think they would have allowed, too, 
that he had a third worshipper in Aunt Sue. He 
always accompanied us in our excursions, and made 
the very prettiest figure in the “foreground” for his 
father’s pictures conceivable. At home, too, on a 
wet day, he was quite a little treasure in this way ; 
for he would sit or stand as still as a mouse, while 
he was being “ worked in ” on the canvas. A lay- 
figure such as painters use costs thirty pounds, which 
was beyond Frank’s slender purse, so that he was 
always glad to get a sitter — a post which was no 
sinecure to him who filled it. Even Aunt Sue was 
pressed into the service occasionally, and then it 
was : “ Steady, steady — Don’t blink your eyes so 


AUNT SUE'S PANIC. 


65 


much — The right arm a little straighter — Bend 
more to the right — Throw a little pleasanter expres- 
sion into the mouth, if you please — Thank you.” 

My brother, the rector, was a welcome guest with 
his artist son, but always averred that this was on 
account of his own venerable appearance : “You 
can’t get a lay-figure, my boy, so you must put up 
with a clerical one.” They had both a very pleasant 
wit ; though, since Lucy and I were sometimes un- 
able to “ see the joke,” we were wont to describe it 
as too subtle. For instance, on a certain excursion 
of ours on the day previous to that on which this 
little story begins, we passed through a seaside 
village where the coastguard station was a very 
commodious building, and the house where the rec- 
tor lived was by comparison a very humble one. 
“ There ! ” cried Frank ; “ that proves what we have 
often heard, that ‘ Prevention is better than cure.’ ” 
It took us some time to remember that the coast- 
guard is also called “The Preventive Service,” and a 
church-living “ A cure of souls ; ” and by the time 
we had found it out, Frank had made another joke. 
Our very dulness, however, was the occasion of mirth 
with us, and when we laughed that set Baba off, so 
that I don’t think there was a merrier party in North 
Devon that summer than we four. It was all the sad- 
der for me when the blow suddenly fell upon us, of 
which I alone was conscious, but which threatened 
to cloud all this brightness in the shadow of death. 

The day, as I have said, was hot and steamy ; but 
in the evening the air became delightful, and we all 
5 


66 


AUNT SUE'S PANIC. 


went down as usual to enjoy it upon the breakwater 
of the little harbor. Even, then there was not a 
breath of wind, and though the tide was up, not a 
single one of all the fishing- vessels had yet returned ; 
we saw the straggling fleet making their way home 
indeed, but at a long distance off, and they seemed to 
get no nearer ; the broad blue sea was flecked with 
their white sails as the sky is sometimes dotted by 
lines of wild-geese clanging to their homes ; only in 
this case there was no noise. The flowing wave 
sighed faintly as it reached the stone beneath us, 
like some exhausted swimmer who gains the shore 
with his last gasp. The tiny flag upon the roof-top 
above us could not flap, but hung heavily about its 
staff. There were no other persons about the harbor 
but ourselves, but the witchery of the scene stilled 
our talk, and little Baba’s prattle was the only sound 
that broke the silence of sea or shore. After awhile 
it became the child’s bedtime, and Lucy rose to ac- 
company him to the inn. As I expressed my inten- 
tion of remaining, Frank kindly offered to stay with 
me, but I knew how great were the attractions for 
him of seeing Baba in his bath and at his prayers, 
so I would not permit him to do so. “Clovelly is a 
very queer place,” said I, “ and its sailors are very 
enterprising ; but I don’t think that anybody — even 
in Clovelly — will think of running away with your 
Aunt Sue.” And so I was left alone. 

In that still summer night, with the quiet stars 
shining above me, and below me — for the great deep 
was like a mirror— an old woman like myself, you 


AUNT SUE'S PANIC. 


67 


may say, reader, might have occupied her thoughts 
to better purpose ; but .instead of reflecting upon the 
transitoriness of life, and my latter end, I confess, 
they were principally fixed upon a certain picnic 
that was to take place upon the morrow. Our 
dear Lucy, always delicate, like her darling child, 
was just then in an interesting condition — a “ little 
stranger,” whom poor Frank’s uncertain income ren- 
dered by no means “ welcome,” was expected in the 
course of a few months — and it was my wish to save 
her from any kind of trouble, so that I took all the 
details of housekeeping, when we were in lodgings 
off her shoulders. And even at the inn, it was neces- 
sary to forecast a little, when any exodus, such as 
the one in contemplation, had been resolved upon. 
I had bespoken some cold meat and potted trout ; 
but I was bent, if possible, on securing some fruit, 
principally on the child’s account, and as a surprise. 
Except to housekeepers, and those upon a very 
moderate scale, such a subject for cogitation will 
doubtless appear contemptible, and I only mention 
it to show how far, at least, my meditations were 
from being morbid or sombre, and hence the more 
forcibly to contrast my state of mind with what it 
became within one short hour afterward. 

“ In the midst of life,” it is written, “ we are in 
death ; ’ and also in the midst of our comfortable 
commonplaces, the ordinary jog-trot life of from day 
to day, we are in the midst of the most terrible ca- 
tastrophes, such as, when we read of their happening 
to others, we dismiss with a “ Dear me, how sad ! ” 


68 


AUNT SUE'S PANIC. 


but which, when they happen to ourselves, turn our 
smooth life inside out, and reveal its seams and 
roughness with pitiless hand. 

Well, I had settled in my own mind about the 
fruit, and also which cushion of the sofa in our little 
sitting-room would suit best to prop dear Lucy’s 
back in the somewhat jolting carriage which we had 
engaged for the morrow, and was slowly toiling up 
the steps to the inn, when this occurred. 

Half-way up the steps there is an ancient arch- 
way occupied as a dwelling-house ; here I stopped 
to gather breath for the remainder of the ascent ; it 
was almost dark by this time, and standing in the 
shadow of the arch, I was quite invisible to any 
passer-by who should not absolutely touch me. I 
had scarcely reached this resting-place, when my 
ear was struck by the faint and suppressed sobs of 
a woman. She was evidently in some room on 
the other side of the wall against which I leaned, 
and but for it, I could have touched her with my 
hand. 

“ Dead, dead, dead ! ” she moaned. “ Oh, what 
shall we do without our bread-winner ? ” 

I was about to knock at the cottage door, to see 
if I could be of any sort of comfort to this poor be- 
reaved creature, when I heard the step of a man 
coming down the hill, so unsteady that I could not 
but conclude that he was in liquor. Such an occur- 
rence is not an unexampled one in any fishing- vil- 
lage, but I have a particular horror of a drunken 
person, and therefore shrank quickly back into my 


AUNT SUE'S PANIC. 


69 


corner. The man came on, and stopped at the very 
door at which I had been about to knock. 

“ In tears! Why, what’s the matter, lass?” I 
heard him say. 

“ Matter enough, man,” returned she, in heart- 
rending tones ; “ our Polly’s dead ; ” and once more 
she burst into sobs. 

“Dead?” repeated he, in a dull, dazed way, as 
though he could not picture to himself the dread 
reality. “ Don’t say she’s dead ! ” 

“ Hush ! Don’t speak so loud, man. Yes ; she 
is dead, and dead of ” 

And here she appeared to whisper something in 
his ear. 

Great Heaven ! what was it that the poor woman 
had died of, that those two should be so secret about 
it. A terrible conviction flashed upon me that the 
hideous disease of which Frank and I had spoken 
that very morning, had actually broken out in the 
place of all others where we had most cause to fear 
it. 

“ You will not breathe a word about it, Alec,” con- 
tinued the sobbing voice. “ It is bad enough as it 
is ; but if it comes to be known how she came by 
her end, it will be even worse.” 

For an instant it struck me that the poor creature 
whose death they were discussing, had been put out 
of the world by foul play ; and such is the selfish- 
ness of human nature (though, to do me justice, the 
thankfulness would not have been on my owm ac- 
count), that I should have been almost thankful for 


TO 


AUNT SUE'S PANIC. 


such a solution of the affair. The next few words, 
however, convinced me of my mistake. 

“ Can I see her ? ” inquired the man gravely, his 
fuddled brains appearing to have become cleared a 
little by the greatness of his loss. “ If I had thought 
her to have been so bad, I would not have gone up 
street to the alehouse.” 

“ You couldn’t have saved her, Alec ; nought could 
have saved her. And nought but harm could come 
now of going to look at her. The only thing to be 
done is to keep all quiet. She is a heavy loss to us 
and the bairns ; but we shall be wellnigli ruined if 
the inn-folks should be frightened away from us.” 

The inn-folks ! Here was a family who evidently 
derived their living from the customers at the inn. 
The man perhaps had a boat for hire, the woman 
doubtless took in the washing of the visitors — our 
washing among others ! Whether it was small-pox 
or scarlet fever, we were equally doomed if any arti- 
cle was used from that cottage, and I silently re- 
solved that it should not be used. The things from 
the wash, the landlady had informed me, would be 
sent home toward the end of the week, and in the 
meantime I would devise some excuse for leaving 
Clovelly without, if possible, giving any shock to 
poor Lucy. 

“ But how are we to help the inn-folks and every- 
one else from knowing it ? ” urged the man. “ W’e 
must get the certificate ” 

“ Whist ! Come in. I’ve a plan to manage that ; ” 
then the door closed behind him, and I heard the 


AUNT SUE'S PANIC . 71 

steps of both of them ascending some rickety stairs 
to the upper floor. 

Though almost breathless with terror, I contrived 
to stagger away from that hateful house, the very 
stones of which seemed to be contagious, and reach 
the bench of which I have spoken, at the top of the 
steps, and there I sat down to think the matter out. 
The atmosphere was as heavy as wool, and dry as 
Gideon’s fleece. How the morrow’s sun would 
scorch up that narrow street, and fructify the seeds 
of disease and death ! The least itching in my 
limbs or features seemed to be the precursor of 
small-pox, and every flush the herald of scarlet 
fever! I saw Lucy’s frightened looks when the 
news should first be told her of the enemy that had 
made its appearance among us, and her hopeless 
face as she bent over her dying boy. Of course it 
was wrong and wicked in me, and showed a great 
want of faith ; but, at all events, my fears were not 
for myself. I thought of the delicate mother and 
her frail child, and of dear, handsome Frank, smitten 
down in his youth and happiness. 

Of course we could not leave the village that 
night, but I resolved to hasten our departure for the 
projected picnic as much as possible, and that, once 
away, we should never return to Clovelly. I would 
tell Frank what had happened at the place where it 
had been agreed on we should dine, and then he 
would break the news to his wife, and we would 
take up our quarters elsewhere — in some town that 
had a resident doctor, and await our fate. If the 


72 


AUNT SUE'S PANIC. 


disease was in the air, as the papers said, we should 
probably carry it with us ; but, at all events, we 
should be in a better position to combat it than 
where we were at present. To be in Clovelly, as it 
seemed to me, was to lie down in our coffins at once ; 
and, indeed, there was not much more room to turn 
round in it. My morbid fancy pictured a sad pro- 
cession winding up that very street, carrying on 
their shoulders a dreadful something with a white 
pall upon it, and which contained our little Baba. 

When I reached the inn, I found, to my great 
relief, that all our party had retired to rest, for, 
indeed, to have to converse cheerily with any of my 
dear ones with such a burden on my mind would 
have been a terrible ordeal ; but the good landlady 
was up, and about, and as brisk as usual. 

“ I am afraid, ma’am, you won’t get your clothes 
from the laundress quite so soon as I had expected,” 
were her first words ; “ for her sister, who helps her 
with the washing, has fallen ill. All the small 
things shall, however, be sent without fail, she 
says.” 

My heart seemed to stop beating, yet I somehow 
contrived to say that there was no hurry about the 
things. If so much as a collar or a pair of cuffs had 
come, I would have burnt them with my own hands. 
I occupied myself at once with packing up not only 
my own clothes, but all of Lucy’s that I could lay 
hands on, in order that they might be ready to send 
after us ; and then retired to bed — not to rest, but 
to think and fear. 


AUNT SUE'S PANIC. 


73 


In the morning, Frank got up betimes, as was his 
custom, to go down to bathe. As he ran whistling 
down the stairs, I thought with a shudder how he 
would have to pass the infected house, and perhaps 
bring back with him the very peril from which I 
would have preserved him ; still, I dared not speak. 
I knew his nervous organization, and that he would 
not be able to keep the dreadful secret from Lucy 
for a single hour. At breakfast, all save myself were 
in the highest spirits, looking forward to their day 
of pleasure, and even planning others to be enjoyed 
“ while this beautiful warm weather lasted.” It 
seemed to me as though the poor deluded creatures 
were dancing upon the brink of their own graves. 

At last I got them off ; and we walked together 
to the top of the hill, which was the nearest spot to 
which a carriage could be brought, and began our 
journey. Every mile which we put between our- 
selves and the village took a load from my heart, and 
yet they rallied me upon my silence. I did my best 
to seem like myself, but the effort was beyond my 
power. Every ring of Baba’s laughter went through 
me like a knell, and I feared to speak, lest I should 
utterly break down and burst into tears. 

At our first halting-place, however, the long-looked- 
for opportunity offered itself of conferring with 
Frank alone ; and I told him all the wretched story. 

To my intense horror, when I had quite done, his 
only reply was a roar of laughter. At first I thought 
his fears for Lucy and the child had driven him out 
of his senses. 


74 


AUNT SUE'S PANTO. 


“ Be a man,” said I, “and help me to do the best 
we can.” 

“ But, my dear Aunt Sue, it’s all a mistake,” cried 
he : “I heard all the story of Polly’s death this 
morning, and what she died of. Polly s a cow ; and 
the foolish woman it belonged to thought it had 
died of the cattle plague. Her husband was too 
drunk last night to find that this was not the case ; 
but this morning he has been making merry with 
his wife’s mistake.” 

.“But, Frank, she said it was their bread-win- 
ner ! ” 

“So it was, in a sense, because they supply the 
milk to our inn ; and if the creature had really had 
the disease, of course all their other cows would have 
had to be destroyed. As to the sick washerwoman, 
who does not happen to live in the village at all, I 
was told, at the little post-office this morning, among 
other local intelligence, that she has got hay fever. 
That’s not a fever to be afraid of.” 

I burst into tears, threw myself into Frank’s 
arms, and fainted away. 

When I came to myself Lucy was wetting my 
forehead with eau-de-Cologne, and Baba fanning me 
assiduously with the “ Guide-Book to North Devon,” 
while my nephew was regarding their united efforts 
with a face in which concern struggled with a very 
strong sense of the ridiculous. 

“Frank,” whispered I, imploringly, “don’t tell 
them that I packed up our things, or anything about 
it.” 


AUNT SUE'S PANIC. 


75 


And he never did. 

It was the heat that had overcome me, he said ; 
only half a dozen times during the day the rogue 
would inquire : “ How’s Polly ? — I mean, Amit 

Sue.” 

Except for that, I never enjoyed a picnic more. 


ME. BLODGERS’ APOLOGY. 


My Aunt Adela, in addition (I am happy to say) 
to much other and more valuable property, possesses 
a little dog called Carlo. It is not true, as some 
assert, that to admire this animal is a passport to 
her favor — although to show any dislike to him 
would undoubtedly be to lose it. “Love me, love 
my dog,” is her motto; but you may love him, or 
(to put my own case) you may not dislike him so 
much as you dislike Aunt Adela, and yet not be 
(like my cousin Agesilaus) her pet nephew. Some 
people seem to have affections only to bestow them 
in the wrong quarters ; they have pets, but not the 
right pets. However, to my tale, or rather to Car- 
lo’s tail, which is quite straight. It used to be 
curly until a certain catastrophe happened to it last 
November : it was run over by an enormous dray, 
and, so to speak, ironed out. Thank Heaven, I had 
nothing to do with that ! Elizabeth, my aunt’s 
maid, an old-fashioned person, who, having been “ in 
the family ” for a quarter of a century, was thought 
worthy of the sacred trust, was taking him out for a 
ramble. Newly washed and wholly white, he was 
attached to her (it was supposed firmly) by a silken 
string, and she had a hook to her umbrella to re- 


MR. BLODGERS ' APOLOGY. 


77 


strain him in extreme cases, which caused her to 
resemble a shepherdess with her lamb ; but all these 
precautions proved useless. He escaped from her 
custody, with the terrible result I have described. 

Elizabeth protested that she “ scarcely took her 
eyes off the sweet dog ” (he is a nice dog enough, 
but his mistress will give him meat meals, and 
therefore he is not sweet), “and only turned her 
head to read a tract in a shop window ; ” but I know 
better. Three troops of dragoons went by, and that 
— as might have happened to a much older and 
uglier woman — turned her head. 

To conceal from her mistress the fact of Carlo’s 
tail having become straight was, of course, impossi- 
ble ; you might as well have tried to deceive a vigi- 
lant auditor of accounts by showing him a one for 
an eight ; and my aunt’s distress of mind was inde- 
scribable. The winter, she said, had indeed set in 
with severity for her ; and Christmas would not be 
the Christmas of old time. As that was the only 
occasion on which she was wont to open her purse- 
strings to her younger relatives, I sincerely trusted 
that this statement might be a poetical one, or 
that, at all events, there would be no change in that 
particular custom. “ Never again,” she averred, 
“ should that little angel go out of her sight into the 
wicked, cruel world ; ” and henceforth, forbidden the 
back garden, Carlo passed his outdoor time on the 
drawing-room balcony. 

From there, at first, “his sober wishes never 
learnt to stray;” his thoughts were entirely occu- 


78 


MR. BLODGERS ’ APOLOGY. 


pied upon his tail, which, though lost to sight (for 
it was too stiff and painful to be wagged into view), 
was never absent from his memory. He knew it 
was there, and the problem that occupied his mind 
was, why had it become invisible ? Presently, as it 
recovered tone, though never shape — it always stuck 
out like a lion’s tail over a public-house — he caught 
sight of it, and then its marvellous metamorphosis 
puzzled him even more than its disappearance had 
done. He remembered the operation, no doubt, 
but probably ascribed it to some phenomenal inter- 
vention of Nature — the fall of a mountain, or even 
of a comet. At times, however, I used to think 
some rudimentary idea of the Darwinian theory 
would cross his mind ; for, after long fits of abstrac- 
sion, he would shake his head, and begin to trot 
about quite cheerfully, as if content to obey the 
Universal Law. 

After awhile, when it ceased to remind him of its 
existence, he forgot all about his tail, and concen- 
trated his intelligence upon schemes of escape from 
his balcony. Although not so intelligent as Baron 
Trenck, he w r as quite as persevering ; the earth was 
frost-bound, and even if it had been fit for engineer- 
ing operations he couldn’t have got at it. Por weeks 
he watched at the little gate that opened upon the 
steps which led into the garden ; and after about 
five thousand observations — about the number of 
times it was shut in his face — came to the conclu- 
sion that it was not intended for canine egress. He 
then turned his attention to the front railing, and, 


MR. BLODGERS ’ APOLOGY. 


79 


squeezing with great difficulty through its bars, 
would stand for hours with his head out (for it was 
a very tight fit, and not, therefore, worth his while 
to withdraw it in a hurry) and contemplate the drop 
of eighteen feet or so. Aunt Adela would have it 
that it was the beauties of nature that attracted him ; 
the icicles on the trees, the snow-wreaths on the 
evergreens, etc. ; but Carlo was not such a fool as 
that : I repeat, and, indeed, the event proved it, he 
was calculating the drop. Failing to make this less 
by looking at it, the astute animal tried the left- 
hand railing which separated my aunt’s balcony from 
that of her neighbor, and emancipated himself at 
the first trial. The drawing-room door was open, 
and in two minutes Carlo had scuttled through the 
house and into the street. The exact date of his 
emancipation, if, like the Baron, he had kept a diary, 
would have been entered as December 17, 1884. 

It is amazing, considering all the talk about the 
sagacity of our “four-footed friends,” how eagerly 
they seize upon the first opportunity to leave the 
lap of luxury for a life of exigency and want. They 
never seem to know when they are well off, and in 
this respect have no counterparts for folly among hu- 
man kind except in boys who run away to sea, and 
in a few well-to-do and worthy men who aspire to 
be members of Parliament. My pity for Carlo was 
sincere, for though folk without home and friends in 
a great city are said to be treated “ worse than dogs,” 
even for dogs it is not pleasant in winter-time ; but 
I confess it was mitigated by the reflection that such 


80 


MR. BLODGERS ’ APOLOGY. 


a consummate little idiot hardly deserved to be com- 
fortable. 

Aunt Adela, however, was in despair. She always 
used to express a withering scorn for advertisements, 
and wonder how “ anyone in their sober senses ” 
could think of being influenced by them ; “ for her 
part, she bought things when she wanted them, and 
not because people she knew nothing about tried to 
persuade her to buy them ; ” but now she became 
what the Salvation Army term a “ prisoner to the 
faith” in them. She seemed to think of nothing 
else: “Advertise, advertise, advertise,” was her one 
cry. I ventured to remark that that business was, 
with a few exceptions, conducted on the ready-money 
system ; upon which, exclaiming that my cousin 
Agesilaus (the pet) would never have mocked a 
sacred sorrow with any such sordid observation, she 
flung me her purse and burst into tears. 

There was only three-and-sixpence in it, which 
does not go far in the way of world- wide circulation, 
but I invested it judiciously in a most respectable 
print, and within four-and-twenty hours it produced 
a dog-stealer. 

Never had Acacia Villa, the haunt — indeed, the 
home — of peripatetic preachers and missionary ma- 
trons, opened its doors, especially at Christmas-time, 
to such a visitor. One cannot say his dress was un- 
seasonable, but it was certainly peculiar. He wore 
a fluffy overcoat with pockets large and numerous 
enough to hold a whole pack of Carlos, velveteen 
dittos, an immense red woollen scarf, and a sealskin 


MR. BLODOERS ’ APOLOGY. 


81 


cap. A short pipe was in his mouth. The nails in 
his boots not only left such impressions upon the 
snow on our gravel walk as it seemed no thaw could 
ever erase, but upon the tiles in the hall, and he 
called Elizabeth, who opened the door to him, “ my 
dear.” 

Nevertheless, his card, with “Mr. William Blod- 
gers, dog fancier, Whitechapel,” upon it, procured 
him an interview with Aunt Adela at once. The 
herald that brought tidings of her lost darling was 
welcome in any shape. 

I had the honor to be present at the interview. 

Aunt Adela wept tears which might have been 
pearls so far as cost was concerned, for I am con- 
vinced that Mr. Blodgers increased his price for 
every one of them. 

“ Had he the little dawg ? Gracious goodness ! ” 
(he was much more emphatic in his ejaculations than 
that) “ what could have put that into the good lady’s 
head ? He had only a fancy for little dawgs, and 
having chanced to see this mi in the neighborhood, 
had looked in to say so.” Notwithstanding, he didn’t 
doubt that, in case parties acted honorable and in a 
liberal spirit — i.e., if no questions were asked and a 
ten-pound note were to be paid — Carlo would be 
forthcoming. 

“ But if I were to give you a ten-pound note,” ob- 
jected Aunt Adela, “ which is a great deal of money 
— how do I know that I should ever get my dog ? ” 

Mr. Blodgers drew himself up with dignity, and 
smote his moleskinned breast. 

6 


82 


MR. BLODGERS ’ APOLOGY. 


“My word, mum,” he replied, “is as good as my 
bond.” 

Aunt Adela rubbed her mittened hands gently to- 
gether and looked exceedingly embarrassed ; it was 
necessary for her to repress the reply that rose nat- 
urally to her lips, in connection with the value likely 
to be attached by any responsible body (such as the 
Committee of the Stock Exchange or the Ecclesias- 
tical Commissioners) even to Mr. Blodgers’ bond. 

“Moreover,” continued that gentleman, “unless 
I have the money, you may take your davey that 
you will never see that there dawg again.” 

This last sentence had all the force of a post- 
script to a lady’s letter. It contained the gist of the 
whole matter. I could read in the workings of 
Aunt Adela’s face that she was picturing to herself 
unspeakable alternatives : imprimis her Carlo put 
to death in default of ransom, under circumstances 
of peculiar atrocity, as among Italian brigands, and 
his skin sent to her by the parcel post. 

“What do you think, John?” she murmured to 
me, beseechingly. 

I had heard her so many times dilate upon the 
miserable evils produced by human weakness, and 
on the duty incumbent on us to resist to the utter- 
most all temptation to palter with eternal principles, 
that I was not at all surprised that she thus shifted 
to my shoulders the responsibility of compounding 
a felony. She believed, as I well understood, that 
a young man of my easy-going disposition would 
have no more scruples on this matter than on any 


MR. BLODGERS ’ APOLOGY . 


83 


other, but would advise her as she secretly wished 
to be advised. 

Nor was her confidence misplaced. 

“It appears to me, my dear aunt,” returned I, 
“ that you have no choice but to trust to Mr. Blod- 
gers’ word.” 

From a secret depository in her desk (which I 
have never seen opened on my account) she pro- 
duced what her spiritual adviser the Rev. Habakkuk 
Hornblower, would undoubtedly have stigmatized 
the wages of sin,” a beautiful, crisp, ten-pound 
note, and handed it over with a sigh to Mr. Blod- 
gers. That gentleman examined it critically, hold- 
ing it up to the light — not, as he explained, that he 
had any doubts about the watermark, but because 
he objected to any marks whatever that tended 
to identification — and thrust it into his pocket. 

“ And when shall I have Carlo back again ? ” 
pleaded Aunt Adela. “ To-night ? Oh, I do hope 
to-night ! ” 

“ Well, mum, I will not deceive you. I have, you 
see, not myself got the dear little dawg. I only 
knows the party as has got him. But to-night, or 
to-morrow night at the furthest, I hope to return 
him to your loving arms.” 

Mr. Blodgers’ words were poetic, but he had not 
what is called among the clergy “ a good delivery.” 
His voice was hoarse to grufihess, and he had a 
habit, which would have been fatal to pulpit elo- 
quence, of wiping his mouth at uncertain intervals 
with the back of his hand. 


84 


MR. BLODGERS' APOLOGY. 


“ I should like,” he concluded, with a certain 
hesitation, which, however, had nothing of the 
character of bashfulness in it, “ before leaving this 
here house, to drink that dear little dawg’s health.” 

My aunt pointed to the cellaret, and I poured 
him out a glass of marsala. It is a liquor which she 
often gives to me ; and I thought it would certainly 
be good enough for Mr. Blodgers. He tossed it off 
without reflection, but seemed immediately to re- 
pent of his precipitancy. 

“ I am sorry to be so troublesome, young gentle- 
man,” he said, “ but after that I must ask for a 
glass of gin.” 

The gesture that accompanied the request made 
it evident that it would not be merely drinking for 
drinking’s sake, but that he stood in need of a 
stomachic. 

When he had gone, I expected Aunt Adela to 
“ break out,” for she was a woman not only endowed 
with considerable self-respect, but who practised 
the strictest economy. As the worst part of love, 
like that of a wig, is said to be “ the parting,” so it 
was with her as regarded money : she never could 
bear to decrease her store, far less her balance at 
her bankers. And here was a ten-pound note gone, 
or as good as gone, in five minutes, and her marsala 
(to say the least of it) depreciated. 

Yet, strange to say, whether struck by the inde- 
pendence of character he had displayed, or by his 
manners (which were certainly original), or, as is 
more likely, moved with regret for her lost dog, and 


MR. BLODGERS' APOLOGY. 


85 


by tlie consciousness that in Mr. Blodgers lay the 
only hope of its recovery, she had not a word to say 
against that gentleman after his departure. On the 
contrary, she expressed a favorable opinion of him. 

“ I think, John, we can trust that man : he seems 
to me to have a certain honesty in his way ; while 
the fact of his proposing my sweet Carlo’s health, to 
my mind, was a very tender touch.” 

It was not my business to remind her that mere 
brutal bluntness was not necessarily honesty, or to 
point out that it is the habit of the lower classes to 
propose toasts, not from any sentimental motives, 
but merely as an excuse for a glass, or, as they more 
commonly term it, “a drain.” I contented myself 
with maintaining what I considered a judicious 
silence concerning Mr. Blodgers. 

There are some people, however, no matter what 
prudence they display, who are always getting into 
hot water ; and this has been my lot through life as 
regards Aunt Adela. My cousin Agesilaus, with 
not one-half of my intelligence, has a certain blun- 
dering natural way with him that succeeds with her 
in the most inexplicable manner. Upon a question 
of fact, he will often contradict her point-blank, 
whereas I, with all the will in the world, have not 
what he calls the moral courage, but what I call 
“ the cheek,” to venture even to remark that she 
may be mistaken. 

For the next twenty-four hours after Mr. Blodgers’ 
visit all went well ; but when a couple of days had 
elapsed without any sign of his return, my aunt 


86 


MR. BLODGERS ’ APOLOGY. 


turned on me as though she was half a hoop and I 
had trodden on her. Why had I persuaded her, she 
would inquire, contrary to her own convictions and 
her sense of right, to have any dealings with such a 
man as Mr. Blodgers ? If it had been my ten-pound 
note, she had the cruelty to remark (for no form of 
sarcasm is so bitter as that which is founded on 
fact), I should have hesitated long enough before 
entrusting it to anyone without some material guar- 
antee. And then she would wind up with some re- 
marks upon selfishness and self-seeking, which, 
considering that she did not hesitate to mention 
names, were little short of personal. 

No one can tell, unless he is the nephew (and not 
the favorite nephew) of an aunt from whom he has 
great expectations, and who is the most self-willed 
and unreasonable of her sex, what I suffered for the 
next ten days. Martyrdom has, I am told, its attrac- 
tive side for some people ; but persecution, with the 
consciousness that there is nothing to be got from 
it, is a much more serious matter. 

Christmas, as she predicted, was certainly not the 
Christmas of old times at Acacia Villa ; it was very 
much worse. Even the ministrations of Mr. Horn- 
blower, though he well understood how to smooth 
the cat (if I may be allowed the expression) the 
right way, failed to comfort his patroness ; the fact 
is, my aunt’s conscience reproached her (now that 
the man had deceived her for her bribery of Mr. 
Blodgers, and she turned on me as though my ad- 
vice had been the means of her losing not only 


MR. BLODGERS ’ APOLOGY. 


87 


the ten-pound note, but her chances of future hap- 
piness. 

Late on Christmas Eve, however, Mr. Blodgers 
reappeared, with Carlo in his arms, as unexpectedly 
as a new constellation. One would naturally imagine 
that there would have been a revulsion of feeling 
in my favor ; but this was very far from being the 
case. The flood-gates of my aunt’s affection were 
opened, and they poured unrestrainedly over the 
hairy prodigal and his restorer ; but not one drop 
from them came my way. She was quite angry with 
me when I got out the marsala, as before, for our 
furry friend. 

“ Do you not remember, John,” she inquired, with 
irritation, “ that Mr. Blodgers prefers liqueur? ” 

I made some allowance, however, for my aunt’s 
feelings of gratitude. The little dog had been evi- 
dently well treated, and was in good case ; he had 
been brought back to her after she had given up all 
hope of his return, and here was the man who had 
brought him, though not, it is true, without a con- 
sideration. Moreover he seemed to have a private 
regard for Carlo, to judge by the way in which he 
looked at him. 

“ Yes, mum,” said Mr. Blodgers, when my aunt 
paid him a compliment to that effect, “one can’t 
help taking an interest in a dawg like that. It’s no 
wonder you loves him ; but,” here he uttered a deep 
sigh, “ there’s another as loves him as much as you 
do.” 

My aunt was touched. 


88 


MR. BLODOERS ’ APOLOGY. 


r 


“ You are fond of Carlo yourself, then, Mr. Blod- 

gers?” 

“ Me, mum ? No, mum ; a laboring man like me 
— why, how could I afford such faldiddles ? ” 

My aunt looked puzzled, but pursued her investi- 
gations no further. For all her ridiculous leaning 
toward the man, I think she was rather afraid of his 
“saying things” that would shock her. 

“ There is only one thing, Mr. Blodgers, that I 
wished to ask you,” she said, as he made his bow : 
“ I had all along every confidence in your word, 
though there were some who discredited it ” — here 
she cast an upbraiding glance in my direction. 
“ But do tell me how it was that you kept Carlo so 
long?” 

“ Me keep him ? La, bless you, not me, mum. 
The fact is, between ourselves, the old lady as I 
sold him to immediate — on the very day you offered 
the reward — she grew so fond of him that I hadn't 
the heart to take him away from her under the week” 


i 


A GUARDIAN ANGEL. 


Everybody who was not a child at the time re- 
members the failure of the Barton Bank, and many 
have good cause to remember it. It was by far the 
greatest financial catastrophe of the present century. 
It happened in the North, but the shock was felt in 
every corner of the land. What was exceptional 
about it was that, instead of confining itself, as most 
banks do when they break, to ruining the widow 
and the orphan, it ruined everyone who had a share 
in it — great and small. Its liabilities were so enor- 
mous — for the thing took place long before banks 
became “ limited ” — that none of its shareholders, 
however wealthy, could meet it. As “ call ” after 
“ call ” was made, those who possessed small or 
moderate means lost their all, and the burthen of 
debt was transferred to broader shoulders, which 
were, nevertheless, unable to bear it. It licked up 
their fortunes like a flame, and then attacked still 
richer men ; them it devoured also, and then began 
to pinch the millionaires, whom, in course of time, 
it consumed with the rest. The last “ call,” unlike 
the last trump, was addressed to the dead only; 
there were no shareholders left “ alive,” in the Stock 
Exchange sense, and everybody was ruined. If the 


90 


A GUARDIAN ANGEL. 


whole story could be told by one who knew the facts, 
which involved the destruction of all that men hold 
dear in all conditions of human life, it would be the 
greatest and saddest romance in the world. 

What was very curious, and might have been 
most serious, her Majesty the Queen was nearly be- 
coming one of the sufferers. Someone having died 
intestate, his estate had reverted to the Crown, and 
a part of it consisted of shares in the Barton Bank ; 
but fortunately it was held by her advisers to be be- 
neath her dignity to be connected with any commer- 
cial undertaking, and the dangerous gift was declined. 
There was a rather audacious skit written at the 
time on the supposition that the money had been ac- 
cepted. It described the royal dwellings on sale, 
and not fetching a large figure in the market. Ken- 
sington went for the price of its materials ; St. 
James’s nobody would bid for; and just as a good 
bargain was about to be concluded for Buckingham 
Palace, it was found that the title was doubtful — 
there was a question if it did not belong to the na- 
tion. The great struggle, however, was over Wind- 
sor Castle, where the creditors insisted on taking up 
their quarters, even if they could not sell it. Ikey 
Moses (of the firm of Moses & Ahasuerus) actually 
seized on the Bound Tower, and resided there for 
weeks ; he used to take pleasure in exhibiting two 
dozen silk pocket-handkerchiefs which he had cut 
out of the Boyal Standard with his own hand. Her 
Majesty’s noble struggles to pay off her obligations 
had had no parallel (in the skit) since Sir Walter 


A GUARDIAN ANGEL. 


91 


Scott’s endeavors in the same line. She wrote five 
hundred autographs a day, and sold them at five 
shillings apiece, and afterward, when the market 
became flooded with them, even cheaper ; but no 
sacrifice could extricate her from her financial em- 
barrassments ; and in the end (if I remember rightly) 
the Prince of Wales (after parting with all his “ or- 
ders”), with a simple expression of astonishment 
(“ My stars and garters ! ” ), had to cut off the entail, 
and the reversion of the monarchy was sold to the 
only man who had the ready money to buy it, who 
happened at that time to be Baron Grant. I mention 
this little jeu d esprit to illustrate the tremendous 
effect that the failure of the Barton Bank had on 
minds even the most frivolous, and also because I 
think it deserves to be rescued from oblivion ; but I 
certainly saw no fun in the matter at the time — the 
whole subject was much too awful and overwhelm- 
ing. 

How I, a young fellow of twenty-four, and with 
scarcely more than that amount of shillings for my 
weekly income, as clerk to an auctioneer, became con- 
nected with the gigantic crash, was as follows : 

Though my daily work lay at Dulborough, some 
miles inland, I lived with my aunt, Deborah Hunt 
(my father’s sister), in her cottage at Mailing, a vil- 
lage on the east coast, and went to and from the 
office by the railway. She had adopted me from 
early childhood, when I lost my parents, and be- 
haved to me, so far as her slender means would per- 
mit, with the utmost generosity and kindness. If 


92 


A GUARDIAN ANGEL . 


anyone could supply the place of a mother, she in- 
deed had done so, and — for a boy — I don’t think I 
was ungrateful. Still, as I grew up to man’s estate, 
though I had none of any other kind at all, I might 
perhaps have found Mailing a little tedious, even with 
that daily change to Dulborough, but for the pres- 
ence of Madge Richardson, a girl of about the same 
age as myself, and whom I loved even better, I fear, 
than dear Aunt Deborah. It is sad how lightly the 
self-sacrifice of years and tie of blood will sometimes 
weigh in the scale against a supple form and a pretty 
face ; but to do Madge (and myself) justice, she had 
far stronger claims on my affection than these, nor 
was she a new-comer in my heart, such as with a 
smile, or a tear, or, alas ! even a wink, will often 
oust an old one, who little deserves such treatment. 
I had known Madge all my life, and every year, 
especially the last seven or eight, had made her 
dearer to me. Aunt Deborah (unselfish soul !) 
thought it the most natural thing in the world 
that I should prefer an evening walk along the cliffs 
with Madge in the summer time, or an hour’s chat 
by Widow Richardson’s ingle, to her own homely 
company. 

“ It is not quite true,” she would say, with her 
kind smile, “ that crabbed age and youth cannot live 
together, is it, Jack ? because we have done it these 
many years. But it is only reasonable that like 
should seek like. I am not jealous of Madge, my 
dear, and only love her less than yourself.” 

We were very grateful to her — both of us ; but I 


A GUARDIAN ANGEL. 93 

am afraid I took every advantage of this generous 
permission. 

“ Many a morning by the moorland did we hear the copses ring, 
And her whisper filled my pulses with the fulness of the spring ; 
Many an evening by the waters did we watch the stately ships, 
And our spirits rushed together at the touching of the lips.” 

Only Madge was never false to me, as the heroine 
of that immortal poem was to her “ young man.” 

So kind and thoughtful was my good aunt, that 
she did not insist, as one’s ancient relatives generally 
do, upon our delaying our marriage till I should have 
made a fortune to support a wife, which I might have 
done, perhaps, at fifty or fifty-five. 

“ I have just four thousand pounds, my dear, of 
my own,” she said, “ which will all be yours when I 
go home.” (She always spoke of heaven as home, 
and if any woman had a right to call it so, it was 
Aunt Deborah.) “ Now, what I propose is, that I 
should sell out half of it, and buy you a partnership 
with your present employer. Then, according to 
his account of matters, you will have an income suffi- 
cient to marry upon.” 

It was indeed a generous proposal, and one that 
made my mouth water ; but I had the grace to say, 
“ And how will you contrive to live on the interest 
of two thousand pounds ? No, my dear aunt, I can- 
not allow you to make such a sacrifice.” 

She took no notice of the latter part of my reply, 
for she knew me better than I knew myself, and that 
I had not the courage to resist such a temptation. 


94 


A GUARDIAN ANGEL. 


“ Well, we must live together, my dear, for the 
present, as we do now, for this house is larger than 
Mrs. Richardson’s, you know, and I don’t think 
Madge will object to my company ; and I must try 
and get a little better interest for my remaining 
money than I do at present.” 

If I had not been overwhelmed with joy and grati- 
tude, perhaps I should have told her that large in- 
terest meant bad security, as a magnificent climate 
always means mosquitoes ; but I was in the seventh 
heaven, and had lost sight of all earthly dross such 
as business matters. 

Small as was our village, a lawyer managed to get 
a living out of it and the parts adjacent. Mr. Morbit 
was his name, and a highly respected one it was, for 
it was supposed he had made a good bit of money. 
He, of course, had the best house in the place, and 
the only one which was never let in the season to 
visitors. He did business for the county gentry, but 
was not too proud (if they had any substance) to give 
his legal assistance to the humblest. It was even 
reported that (if they had any good security to offer) 
he would lend them money. He helped the fisher- 
men in this way, when the harvest of the sea was 
unproductive, and thereby came to hold shares in 
their little fleet. To look at him was to receive an 
impression of financial stability. He was a portly 
man, with features as well lined as a ledger, and a 
soft, confident voice which made all obstacles to his 
arguments seem smooth. The only thing that seemed 
false about him was his Welsh wig. 


A GUARDIAN ANGEL. 


95 


My partner that was to be — I mean the auctioneer, 
of course, not Madge — had the same high opinion of 
him that everybody else had, and recommended Aunt 
Deborah to apply to him with regard to the settle- 
ment of her affairs, which, indeed, she would have 
done in any case. As soon as he understood the 
nature and extent of them he would not hear of her 
troubling herself to visit his office, the weather at the 
time being exceedingly inclement, but came in per- 
son to the cottage to talk the matter over. He sold 
out the stock for her from the Three per Cents, in 
which it stood, and purchased the share in my em- 
ployer’s business for me, and then had a long talk 
with her in my presence as to the investment that 
should be sought for her other two thousand pounds. 
He proposed various securities, but on the whole 
was in favor of purchasing shares in the Barton 
Bank. The liability, I ventured to observe, was 
unlimited. 

“ The liability, as our young friend remarks,” he 
answered, with a gentle smile, “ is unlimited, and a 
bank is liable to break, which may also be said of the 
Bank of England ; that catastrophe is as likely to 
happen to the one as to the other. If it was not un- 
limited the shares would be unattainable, whereas, 
at present prices, they pay interest at eight per cent. 
You will, in fact, my dear madam, get a larger in- 
come from your two thousand pounds thus invested 
than from your four thousand pounds as it was placed 
before. I have shares in the bank myself, and I am 
rather a cautious person ; on the other hand, the 


06 


A GUARDIAN ANGEL. 


Barton Bank is not in need of your money any more 
than I am, and you can put it where you like.” 

Aunt Deborah had no liking in that way, having 
about as clear notions of investments generally as she 
had of the Chaldee tongue, and was very willing to 
fall in with the lawyer’s view ; but I thought it looked 
well and business-like to raise another objection or 
two, among them the obvious fact that the Barton 
Bank might not always pay so much as eight per 
cent. 

Again Mr. Morbit patronized me in the same over- 
whelming manner. 

“ Your nephew, madam, remarks with great sa- 
gacity that we can’t always rely on eight per cent.; 
but it is my conviction that the interest will rise 
rather than fall, and, indeed — if it were not unpro- 
fessional — I would myself guarantee you that it 
would never sink below seven per cent.” 

After an undertaking of that sort — though, to be 
sure, not actually entered into — by a man like Mr. 
Morbit, there was nothing more of course to be said, 
so matters were arranged as he proposed, and, to 
save my aunt all bother and trouble, it was settled 
that he himself should forward the interest to her 
half-yearly, when the dividends were declared. And 
so, in fact, he did. 

I did not attend to the business perhaps so dili- 
gently as I should have done (though, indeed, I don’t 
see how I could have helped or hindered it), for I 
was too full of delight and happiness. To become 
a partner, at my age, in a house (though it was but 


A GUARDIAN ANGEL. 


97 


a small one) where one had been a clerk, was enough 
to turn any young fellow’s head; but besides that, 
to be thereby enabled to marry the girl of my heart, 
was a reflection that was rapture indeed. 

If I were to begin to speak of that subject I 
should never have done, but it is possible that those 
who do not know Madge might find it a little 
tedious, so I confine myself to Aunt Deborah and 
her investment. We lived under the same roof with 
her, as she had proposed, and very comfortably. 
My own contribution to the housekeeping was now 
a substantial help, and the proceeds of her shares 
were paid by Mr. Morbit with admirable punctuality, 
and, as he had predicted, so far from diminishing, 
they once reached over ten per cent. 

It was exactly twelve months after my marriage 
with Madge that that excellent dividend had been 
declared, a circumstance which, as Aunt Deborah 
declared (as if the money had been ours), should 
diminish any anxiety we might feel about making 
provision for a certain little stranger who had just 
arrived at the cottage, though not unexpectedly. 
For folks in our humble way we had indeed quite a 
respectable income, when suddenly, like “ a bolt out 
of the blue,” came the dreadful news that the Barton 
Bank had stopped payment. As Mr. Morbit had 
said, there had seemed to the world at large as much 
likelihood of it as of the breaking of the Bank of 
England, though, of course, its rotten state must 
have been known to some persons for years before — 
a ghastly secret, indeed, for them to carry about 
7 


98 


A GUARDIAN ANGEL. 


with them. How often could they have destroyed 
the happiness of a home with a whisper, or on the 
other hand, perhaps, saved it from ruin, had they 
dared to speak ! 

The news came to our office at Dulborough early 
one afternoon in spring, and, though it drove me 
almost out of my mind with the horror of it, I had 
the sense to take the next train home at once to pre- 
vent the tidings reaching my dear ones through 
other lips than mine. I did not do so, however, 
before I had been to the local bank, where we kept 
our modest account, and had the matter fully cor- 
roborated; the banker, who had not suffered him- 
self, but who knew my position, and I believe hon- 
estly pitied me, gave me the characteristic piece of 
comfort : 

“ Things might have been worse, my poor fellow 
— the two thousand pounds your aunt advanced to 
you might all have gone with the rest.” 

“ But there will surely be something paid in the 
pound ? ” I murmured. 

“ As I am advised,” he said, gravely, “ there will 
not be one farthing. Except as a matter of time, it 
will signify nothing whether a shareholder held ten 
shares in the Barton Bank or ten thousand. He 
will equally be stripped to his last shilling.” 

At the time I could hardly believe such a terrible 
story ; but it was true, every word of it. 

On reaching Mailing, and before going to the cot- 
tage, I called at Mr. Morbit’s — the benefit of his 
advice even in that hour of wretchedness seemed to 


A GUARDIAN ANGEL. 


99 


be worth having — and I had forgotten for the mo- 
ment — for misery makes us very selfish — that he 
himself had shares in the bank. The lawyer was 
not in, but his clerk, whom I knew well, beckoned 
me into a private room. 

“ You are come about that Barton business, I sup- 
pose? ” he said. “Well, it is worse than anything 
you can have heard of it.” Then in a whisper, 
“ Between ourselves, my man is off.” 

By his “ man ” he meant his master. 

“ Do you mean to say that Mr. Morbit has ” 

I could not finish the sentence, so intense were 
my emotions, for what the clerk hinted at was indeed 
of terrible augury to ourselves. 

“ Hooked it,” he said, “ that’s the simple fact. 
He talked about urgent business, but I know what 
that meant. We shall never see his Welsh wig and 
his Roman nose again. He ain’t going to wait here 
to be sold up, bless yer.” 

“Do you mean that his house will have to be 
sold ? ” 

“ Of course it will ; that is, it would be if it was 
not mortgaged down to the cellar -step already. 
Every stick that every shareholder in the Barton 
Bank possesses will have to go.” 

Then I went home and told my dear ones as ten- 
derly as I could what had happened. They could 
have borne it, however I had told it. What courage, 
what endurance, what trust in Heaven those two 
good women had ! It made me ashamed of myself, 
but on the other hand I had greater cause for de- 


100 


A GUARDIAN ANGEL. 


pression, for was it not for my sake that clear Aunt 
Deborah had ruined herself ! 

Curiously enough, she took exactly the same tone 
of argument as the Dulborough banker had. 

“ Well, my dear Jack,” she said, “ it might have 
happened, you know, that I had taken Mr. Morbit’s 
advice, and put the whole four thousand into the 
bank instead of buying your partnership with the 
half of it. So, in point of fact, it is you who have 
so far preserved me.” 

“ Aunt Deborah,” exclaimed Madge, “ you’re an 
angel.” With which she burst into tears, and I am 
not ashamed to say I followed her example. 

We had now, indeed, as we felt, and, in fact, so it 
turned out, nothing but auctioneering to live upon. 
It was only a question of time when Aunt Deborah’s 
bed should be sold under her, and the roof over her 
head. 

In a few weeks the first “ call ” was made on the 
shareholders, and as far as their fortunes were con- 
cerned it was like “ the first warning ” that precedes 
human decay. Like “ pallid death ” itself the sum- 
moner knocked at every door, from that of the great 
landlord to the small shopkeeper, but, by some in- 
explicable chance, it did not knock at our door. 

Aunt Deborah was waiting for it with her little 
instalment which she had scraped up, before finally 
disposing of her cottage, but it did not come. As 
she had made up her mind to the worst, it was far 
from a relief to her, and though I implored her not 
to precipitate calamity, she wrote to the liquida- 


A GUARDIAN ANGEL. 


101 


tors of the bank to inform them that they had 
omitted to give her notice of the call. In a day or 
two she received the following reply : 

“ Madam : In reply to yonr favor, we have the 
pleasure to inform you that your name does not ap- 
pear among the shareholders of the Barton Bank.” 

Never was curt communication so rapturously 
received, but it was nevertheless inexplicable. I 
hastened at once to Mr. Morbit’s clerk, who was 
the only legal authority left in the place, for it 
was quite true that his late employer had cut and 
run, leaving the very worst of reputations behind 
him. 

“ What does this mean ? ” I inquired, putting the 
bank letter into his hand. 

“Well, it just means that your aunt is a very lucky 
woman. My man has robbed everybody right and 
left, and her among them. Instead of putting her 
money into the bank, he must have kept it for his own 
speculations, though paying her the interest quite 
regularly. She has lost her two thousand pounds, 
but that’s the worst of it.” 

And it zvas the worst. Her cottage, which it would 
have broken her heart to leave, and its pretty furni- 
ture were preserved to her. I have succeeded in life 
— perhaps beyond my merits, but Madge says “ No ” 
— and long since paid Aunt Deborah back her two 
thousand pounds; the other two thousand pounds 
which she most luckily invested in my partnership 


102 


A GUARDIAN ANGEL. 


I can never persuade her to accept ; but there it is, 
and more too, Heaven bless her ! should she ever 
require it. But I can never get her to take the same 
view of Mr. Morbit’s character that everybody else 
does. 

“ Perhaps he did not mean it, dear Jack,” she says, 
“ but he saved me from ruin. If good intentions that 
come to nothing are valueless, as we are always told, 
perhaps bad intentions that turn out well should be 
placed to our credit. At all events, whenever I look 
round my little cottage I bless Mr. Morbit. He was 
our Guardian Angel ! ” 


A CHEAP TOUR. 


Sir Richard Gibbs of Newton Hall was a self- 
made man, but well made : he was not of amateur 
construction. He had created a large fortune by 
honorable means, and had been much respected in 
the city. But he was not so popular in the county 
as he deserved to be. He was straightforward, well- 
meaning, and in all public matters extremely lib- 
eral ; but his manners, if not absolutely rough, were 
unconciliatory, even dictatorial. He set no great 
value on money for its own sake, but highly es- 
teemed the man who made it : and he had made it. 
He not only detested idleness, but thought every 
young man should work, and work hard, even if his 
future were assured to him. 

His son Charley was not of that opinion, and his 
views were shared by most other young men in the 
neighborhood ; the sons of men of fortune, like him- 
self. Charley was kept by his father very short in 
the matter of pocket-money, and had it not been for 
his mother, who secretly supplemented his allow- 
ance, that youth would have been debarred from 
joining in many amusements— even innocent amuse- 
ments — of those of his class and age. This was an 
error on Sir Richard’s part. 


104 


A CHEAP TOUR. 


Mr. Beaumont of the Grange, who was his near 
neighbor, admired, however, his conduct in this 
matter, though in little else. He, too, had a son, 
with great expectations, and very much disinclined 
to economy ; but what Lionel Beaumont spent was 
solely on himself, whereas Charley was openhanded 
to everybody, which makes a great difference in 
lavishness. 

The Beaumonts were an old family, and held their 
heads very high — “gave themselves infernal airs” 
was Sir Richard’s way of putting it. Though by 
reason of her title Lady Gibbs was taken down to 
dinner before Mrs. Beaumont, she would have been 
made to feel that she was her social inferior if she 
had been capable of being wounded in that way; 
but she was a cheery, sound-hearted woman, who on 
a question of precedence was once heard to re- 
mark : 

“ They may put me where they like, for all I care, 
unless it’s in a draught, because that gives me the 
rheumatism.” 

Everybody who was not anybody — and they form 
the large majority of the human race — liked Lady 
Gibbs ; but her husband, as has been said, was not 
popular. 

This was hard, because he subscribed handsomely 
to everything — the County Hospital and the Luna- 
tic Asylum and the local volunteers — which Mr. 
Beaumont did not do ; for, though quite as rich, he 
was close-fisted. I had opportunities, as parson of 
the parish, of knowing much of both families, and 


A CHEAP TOUR. 


105 


in spite of my ecclesiastical prejudice in favor of the 
old-established race, I preferred the new-comers. 
If there was a case of sickness among the poor, or 
of the loss of a bread-winner, or of a cow, I went to 
the Hall, and not to the Grange ; and many a time, 
in addition to the parental donation, did Charley 
press his half a crown upon me out of a very scanty 
purse. 

Both boys had left school, but Lionel was pro- 
ceeding to the University, while Charley was to go 
into his father’s business, in which, though he had 
retired from it, he had still a great deal of money. 
They were each about eighteen years of age, and had 
seen “nothing of life,” as the phrase runs — as 
though life was something outside one, and could be 
viewed only at this or that place of exhibition. It 
can be viewed always and everywhere — though not 
often gratuitously. 

There was some time to be passed at home before 
the young man “ buckled to,” as Sir Bichard called 
it ; and he thought Charley ought to “ feel his feet ” 
first, and that this was best to be done by going 
abroad entirely on his own hook for a month or so. 
Charley would have been perfectly willing had the 
terms been liberal, but this was far from being the 
case. When we are very poor every shilling is of 
consequence, and to save it is a sure and certain — 
though very unpleasant — method of getting rich; 
but when we have “ made our pile ” such a course of 
conduct is no longer economical, but miserly. 

It is, however, difficult to throw off old habits, 


106 


A CHEAP TOUR . 


and in matters of personal expenditure Sir Richard 
was as sparing as ever. In his son he saw himself 
when he had been a young man, and had had to 
earn his bread, and concluded that what had sufficed 
for him would suffice for Charley. He did, indeed, 
take into some consideration the habits his son had 
acquired; but the allowance he at last decided to 
give him — namely, ten shillings a day, travelling in- 
cluded — was certainly much too small. 

It was true he drew up a most accurate plan of 
proceeding, with the rates set against the meals, and 
amount of mileage by third-class ; so that it showed 
quite a handsome surplus out of the fifteen pounds 
when the thirty days were done ; but Charley looked 
askance at it, and I am quite certain had not from 
the first the faintest intention of keeping his expenses 
within such narrow limits. He trusted to his 
mother, as usual, to see him through it; but for 
once he found his supplies in that direction cut off. 
Sir Richard had persuaded her that this was a test- 
case of their son’s intelligence and capability of 
transacting affairs ; and having the utmost confidence 
in her dear Charley’s sagacity, she had promised 
not to thwart so hopeful a scheme. The matter was 
made no secret, and was much debated. 

“ I don’t think, my dear Lady Gibbs,” said Mrs. 
Beaumont, not very good-naturedly, “that your 
Charley is quite the sort of young gentleman to 
practise economy.” 

“Well, well, we shall see,” returned the other. 
“ Of course he will have a trying time of it, but I 


A CHEAP TOUR. 


107 


have promised him a pound for every shilling he 
brings back, so as to give him every encouragement.” 

The intentions of his father, if he had but known 
them, were even more liberal. He meant to give 
him a very handsome present indeed if he should 
prove himself a chip of the old block. This of 
course w r as not so much liberality — though he was 
only sparing in small things — as egotism. More- 
over, his neighbor had openly flouted him about the 
matter : 

“ If your boy does it, Lionel shall do it ; but your 
boy will never do it. He doesn’t know the value of 
money.” 

If Mr. Charley should come home with anything 
to spare, it would therefore be a great triumph for 
Sir Kichard. 

Lionel, too, had expressed his opinion that the 
experiment would prove a disastrous failure. 

“ Why, every beggar-woman Charley meets on 
the road,” he said to me, contemptuously, “ will get 
some of that fifteen pounds ; he might just as well 
take fifteen pence with him.” 

And I confess that I was of Master Lionel’s opin- 
ion. What I was afraid of was that Charley would 
borrow money from somebody or other, and deceive 
his father; for I have noticed that dissimulation 
often comes of keeping young people too short. 
But this I afterward found he had promised not to 
do ; and, though inclined both to recklessness and 
extravagance, he was a man of his word. He spoke 
to me quite openly upon the affair : 


108 


A CHEAP TOUR. 


“ As the pater and mater both wish me to try to 
* live on nothing a day and find myself,’ I am going 
to make the experiment. I shall follow the route 
that has been given me exactly. I think my money 
will last me perhaps a week, and get me as far as 
Basle, and there I shall live in pawn, I suppose, till 
I am redeemed.” 

“ But ten shillings a day, my dear boy, is not 
‘ nothing,’ though I admit it is a short allowance; 
and you need not be extravagant with it. If it all 
goes in a week your father will be very angry.” 

“ Well, I have some right to be angry too,” he 
answered. “Iam not going to journey like a jour- 
neyman tailor, but like an English gentleman. 
Lionel has done nothing but chaff me from the first 
moment this hateful plan was hit upon for my 
humiliation.” 

He was, indeed, one of those young gentlemen 
who derive considerable enjoyment from the mis- 
fortunes of their friends. 

When Charley left home I certainly expected it 
would not be for the whole time agreed upon, and I 
was not without my fears that the abbreviation of 
his tour would be the cause of serious trouble at 
home. But, strange to say, the letters his mother 
received from him from time to time were not only 
contented, but cheerful. Small as were his means 
of doing so, he seemed to be enjoying himself very 
much, and not a word was said about the shortness 
of his funds. 

In obedience to his father’s instructions, he al- 


A CHEAP TOUR. 


109 


ways enclosed a list of his expenses, and they were 
so very like what they should have been, as calcu- 
lated by Sir Bichard, that they might have been 
copied from his very programme — which indeed, 
they were. The worthy knight was charmed, and 
expressed his conviction that, “ when put to it, 
Charley was as good a manager of his own affairs as 
need be, and knew how to cut his clothes according 
to his cloth as well as any man.” 

Mr. Beaumont’s idea, on the contrary, was that 
the lad had applied to the Jews, which made his 
neighbor frantic. 

“ My son has promised not to borrow money of 
anybody,” he roared, “ and I can trust him.” 

But I confess, much as I liked the young fellow, 
that I began to have my doubts. I did not forget 
what he had told me of his own intentions in the 
matter, which his conduct seemed to so diametrically 
contradict. I could not picture him as that model 
of prudence and economy which he was fast becom- 
ing in his parent’s eyes. However, not till the 
month’s end did Charley return to us, and even then 
he had a couple of pounds left. 

“ Do you mean to say,” cried old Mr. Beaumont, 
“that they are the bona-fide remnants of your 
father’s fifteen pounds ? ” 

“They have never left my pocket,” answered 
Charley. 

“Well, then, you deserve” — the old squire looked 
for a moment as if he were going to offer his young 
friend some tangible proof of his admiration, but 


no 


A CHEAP TOUR. 


contented himself with adding — “ all your father is 
going to give you.” 

Sir Richard wrote his son a check for <£50, and his 
wife gave her dear economical boy forty sovereigns for 
his forty shillings, as per agreement. The success 
of the expedition made quite a sensation in the 
comity. It was canvassed far and wide, and caused 
many sage dissertations to be made about “ What is 
bred in the bone,” etc., and how the characteristics 
of a family will crop up even in members of it 
where you would never expect it. 

But the person on whom it made the greatest im- 
pression was Mr. Beaumont. He did not believe in 
heredity as applied to economy, and concluded that 
if Charley, with his extravagant notions, could live 
on ten shillings a day, including his travelling ex- 
penses over half Europe, his own offspring could do 
the same on less. This was more or less the opin- 
ion of every father who knew Charley, and caused 
the allowances of such of their sons as were taking 
holiday abroad to be seriously curtailed ; so that he 
was not only quoted as a model of economy, but ac- 
tually made to some extent a revolution in that 
science. Of course this was gratifying to the young 
fellow ; but what seemed to please him most was 
the resolution the squire arrived at of sending his 
own son abroad on the same terms. 

Lionel came to the Hall with a long face to get 
“ wrinkles ” out of his young friend as to travel, ex- 
penditure, and the like, but Charley only referred 
him to his mother, who held his letters from abroad, 


A CHEAP TOUR. 


Ill 


with their accompanying “accounts,” as the most 
precious of her possessions, and was always ready 
to read them to her friends. They were at once ex- 
amples of filial piety, for he was a most affectionate 
son, and illustrations of the art of travel — cheap. 

Lionel did not relish the notion of thus emulating 
his friend ; it was like riding at an ugly place which 
the other fellow has already got over, somehow, and 
is watching your movements in perfect security, and 
wondering how you are going to do it. Still, he 
knew he was a better hand at economy — at least, 
as regarded other people, and in the matter of tips 
and benevolences — than Charley ; and if you spend 
every farthing on yourself, even a small sum of 
money goes a good way. So he started just as the 
other had done, though certainly not in such high 
spirits — his temperament was colder, not to say 
morose — and his mother awaited news from the 
Continent with the same anxiety that Lady Gibbs 
had experienced. 

On the day he departed, as it happened, some 
business took me to town ; and Sir Richard asked 
me to look out for rooms for his son when he should 
enter the office. They were to be handsome rooms ; 
for the knight, now that he had found that Charley 
could live upon a little, was willing enough to make 
self-denial unnecessary to him. Indeed, it was diffi- 
cult to exaggerate the benefits that foreign travel — 
or, rather, the way in which he had accomplished it 
— had conferred upon that young man. 

At the club that evening I met a college friend 


112 


A CHEAP TOUR. 


who had just returned from abroad, and had a chat 
with him about old times in the smoking-room. To 
a parson in the country such talks are especially 
agreeable, for it is but seldom we have the chance 
of them. As he was so good as to ask about my 
affairs, I told him why I was in town, including that 
matter of the rooms for Charley Gibbs, in which I 
had been successful. 

“ Gibbs ! ” he said. “ I wonder whether that was 
the young fellow I met in Paris last month.” 

“Well, it might have been, for he was in Paris.” 

“ A handsome, bright-looking lad, with fair hair 
and dark eyes, full of fun, and who I took it for 
granted was, as you say, an only son, by the way he 
threw his money about with both hands.” 

“ You have described him very accurately,” I said, 
“except that he couldn’t have thrown his money 
about, for he had none. His father is peculiar, and 
though very rich ” 

“ I know ! ” cried my friend, slapping his knees, 
and exhibiting the greatest excitement; “he only 
allowed him ten shillings a day, including his travel- 
ling expenses ! ” 

The tears came into his eyes with laughing. I 
really thought — for he was fat — that the man would 
have had a fit. 

“ Come,” I said ; “ do tell me. I knew there was 
something queer about that journey abroad.” 

“ No, no ; it’s a secret between your young friend 
and me. I’m not one to tell tales out of school. 
Only just give him my kind regards when you see 


A CHEAP TOUR. 


113 


him, and say I shall not easily forget that good 
time at Meurice’s. The boy amused me exceed- 
ingly.” 

“ At Meurice’s ? Do you mean the hotel ? Then, 
it couldn’t have been Charley. He was staying at a 
sort of commercial travellers’ inn in the suburbs that 
Sir Eichard had had recommended to him.” 

“ Was he ? Ah, then, I must have been mistaken,” 
answered my friend, dryly. “ Because the gay young 
fellow I mean was where I was, only he had a private 
sitting-room of his own, and gave deuced good 
dinners in it : cost two napoleons a head if they cost 
a shilling. He was also so good as to give me more 
than once a seat in his box at the opera.” 

I had had a very quiet dinner at the club, but just 
at that moment I felt as if I had been drinking a 
magnum of champagne — my head seemed to be turn- 
ing round. The idea of that box at the opera — on 
ten shillings a day — was too astounding. Neverthe- 
less, I was devoured by curiosity. 

“ Since you have told me so much, you must tell 
me more,” I said. “ Your behavior reminds me of 
the man who had lost his arm, and being pestered 
by the American citizen to say how it happened, 
replied, ‘It was bit off.’ You have but whetted 
expectation.” 

“ I will only gratify it on one condition,” replied 
my friend. “You must not repeat one word of what 
I am going to tell you to anybody. I will not have 
my young friend — and host — got into trouble from 
anything you may consider it to be your duty to say 
8 


114 


A CHEAP TOUR. 


or do; nor must you get anyone else to do your 
‘duty’ for you, as a parson often does.” 

I thought this an unpleasant observation, but I 
would have submitted to much worse things to learn 
the truth about Charley, and I gave the required 
promise. 

“Well, this was how it happened, then. The 
young fellow never stinted himself for anything from 
the hour he first set foot on foreign soil. He took 
the route that had been planned out for him, but 
always travelled first-class, and fed on the best. Nor 
did he endanger his health by drinking vin ordinaire . 

“ When he had left the Rhine and reached Wies- 
baden, he had just two pounds remaining of the 
fifteen pounds that were to last him for the month, 
and there were only five days of it gone. He took 
rooms at the best hotel, and having ordered his 
champagne to be put in ice, strolled down to the 
Kursaal. He meant to write home that afternoon 
to say that things had been dearer on the Continent 
than had been expected ; but it was not a pleasant 
thing to do, so he put it off till the evening. In the 
meantime, and since he would have to stay where 
he was till a remittance — with probably a very se- 
vere jobation — arrived, there was no reason why he 
should not enjoy himself. 

“ The sight of the splendid play-rooms, with the 
heaps of gold upon the tables and the notes in cages 
— like doves — delighted him. He had not the least 
idea how the game was played, but the idea struck 
him that since his two pounds — two napoleons and 


A CHEAP TOUR . 


115 


some silver — would be of no sort of use to him, he 
might j us l as well try and make more of them. If 
he lost, he could not be much worse off than before, 
for he must live on credit as it was, and had not even 
enough to get home with ; and if he won — well, it 
would be very nice to have something to spend at 
Wiesbaden. The idea of winning a pile of money 
that would rescue him from all embarrassments, and 
prevent his troubling his folk at home, never entered 
into his mind. But the very first time he put his 
two napoleons upon the table the benevolent croupier 
pushed him over eighteen with a long rake. 

“ He had the good sense to put eight of them, in- 
cluding his own two, into his pocket, and there he 
resolved they should remain. If the worst came to 
the worst, and Sir Richard cut off his supplies, he 
could now get home ; he had procured the means of 
retreat, and could tempt Fortune, as it were, on 
velvet with his ten napoleons. Once he lost half his 
available capital, but that was the lowest point he 
ever touched. He never risked more than two at a 
time, but these he staked with ‘ great judiciousness,’ 
as he called it ; not that he knew in the least what 
he was doing, but trusted to luck, which, when it is 
kind, is worth all the 1 martingales ’ in the world. 
Before he rose to go to his table d’hote he had won 
two hundred and fifty napoleons, and had a most ex- 
cellent appetite for dinner. 

“ Now, in all stories, you know, a fellow who wins 
money at the tables, whether at Wiesbaden or any- 
where else, is made to lose it again, and then his own 


116 


A CHEAP TOUR. 


money, and then the money belonging to his employ- 
ers ; but our young friend had too much good sense 
for that. Nothing would have made him risk those 
two hundred and fifty napoleons. He most wisely 
and prudently resolved to have a great deal of pleas- 
ure out of them, and, so far as I could judge from 
his proceedings in Paris, he got it. What gave, no 
doubt, zest to it, was that he did a little work every 
day. He carefully collated, as it were, from his 
father’s MSS. the lowest rates of living and travel, 
and sent them home with the somewhat triumphant 
heading, ‘ How to Travel on the Cheap.’ I dare 
say his friends thought it funny, but if they had 
known all they would have thought it funnier. He 
never said, ‘ I only spent this and that ; ’ and, indeed, 
he seemed to me a very truthful lad.” 

When my friend, who had not been a moralist even 
at the University, said this, I could not help, as a 
clergyman, giving a little groan of disapproval. 

“ It was certainly a suppressio veri if not a sugges- 
tio falsi” I observed. 

“ Well, well, what can you expect of a young fellow 
with ten thousand a year made to travel as though 
he were a curate ? And, then, consider, how im- 
mensely he enjoyed himself ! He couldn’t have done 
that, you know, if his conscience had reproached 
him.” 

I was really not quite so sure of that. The whole 
narrative distressed me, though no doubt it had some 
elements of humor in it. 

“ The worst of it is,” I said, “ that Charley’s sue- 


A CHEAP TOUR. 


117 


cess in the matter has caused another young fellow, 
quite as rich, but not nearly so nice, to be sent abroad 
by his father upon the same modest allowance.” 

When I made this announcement my friend was 
unhappily taking a brandy-and-soda, and it all “ went 
the wrong way.” I really thought he would have 
been suffocated. He seemed to think that poor 
Lionel Beaumont’s struggles to keep within his very 
moderate means would be the best part of the whole 
story. 

And, after all, he did not keep within them. He 
got farther than Wiesbaden — where, I am happy to 
say, he never thought of improving his pecuniary 
condition — but not much farther, and then had to 
write home for funds. It was a great triumph for 
Charley. Sir Richard was very proud and pleased, 
and increased the very handsome allowance he had 
promised to make him in town. Of course I kept 
my word and held my tongue ; but it is many years 
since then, and the good knight has long departed 
from us, so that I can do no harm to Charley in re- 
cording the secret of his “ Cheap Tour.” 


UNDEK SENTENCE OF DEATH. 


It has been described to ns by a master-hand how 
a man looks at life during the scant remains of it 
when sentence of death has been passed by the 
judge from the bench, in accordance with a law from 
which there is no appeal. Henceforward he is not 
as other men, but dwells in a world of his own, 
which seems to grow smaller and smaller daily, like 
that iron chamber in which the prisoner of the In- 
quisition was immured, which day by day lost one 
of its walls and one of its windows, and closed around 
him like a living tomb. 

One very dear to me once received a similar sen- 
tence from the lips of a judge (“unhappily,” as my 
friend was wont to say, with a quiet smile, “ a good 
judge ”) — though not, indeed, a criminal one — and it 
was his humor, as I walked by his wheeled chair, 
to compare his own experience with that of the con- 
demned wretch, with whose fictitious terrors all 
readers are familiar. Just at the very first they had 
some feelings in common, different as the cases were 
in their nature. The immediate effect of the pass- 
ing of each sentence was the same, just as when a 
man is run over in the street, or falls into the fire 


UNDER SENTENCE OF DEATH. 119 

and presently succumbs, he is equally said to die of 
“ shock.” 

The shock — setting aside the paraphernalia of 
judge and jury, and perhaps the publicity of the 
place in which the thing was done — was indeed 
greater in my friend’s case than in that of the con- 
vict, from its unexpectedness ; for the latter, before 
it happened, was only too apprehensive of its taking 
place, while the former had not the least suspicion 
of it. He felt a certain pain in a certain place as he 
was taking his daily walk one morning, and looked 
in upon his doctor for a prescription for it, just as 
though, if he had felt a trifle low, he might have 
asked him for a tonic ; but when half an hour after- 
ward he came out of that house it was as another man. 
He had entered it with a light heart (he used after- 
ward humorously to speculate as to whether the 
lightness of his heart, which was excessive, might 
not have been the cause of his calamitous condition), 
a man with twenty years of life before him, full of 
congenial work ; he left it with the conviction that 
the years which he had calculated upon must, at the 
best, be represented by weeks ; the road on which 
he had been so smoothly travelling, and must con- 
tinue to travel, led, it seemed, a little way further on 
to a broken bridge over a dark river, the further bank 
of which was hid in mist. 

He had, in short, been sentenced to death, and 
though with some hope of respite, with none of 
pardon. 

He had indeed the right of appeal, of which he 


120 


UNDER SENTENCE OF DEATH. 


was, advised to take advantage ; but, as has been 
said, he knew his judge to be a good one, whose 
decision was unlikely to be reversed by any other. 
What a man’s own doctor, whom he has known for 
years, tells him about himself, is indeed generally 
more trustworthy than even a “ first opinion,” “ so 
called, I am sometimes tempted to believe,” my 
poor friend used to say, “ because the learned expert 
sees you for the first time.” 

At all events, in his case the higher court con- 
firmed the judgment of the lower. 

“ Yours is a serious case, sir,” said the great phy- 
sician, after due examination and inquiry. 

4 ‘You mean an incurable one ?” 

“We doctors do not like to use that word, but as 
you put the question tome so decisively, I am afraid 
I must answer ‘ Yes,’ sir. You will suffer discom- 
fort, but very little pain. Our friend here ” — indi- 
cating the other doctor, for there had been a consul- 
tation, of course — “will advise you as to the regimen. 
Thanks. Good-morning, sir.” 

He might more reasonably have said “ good-by,” 
but he had, as it were, taken his black cap off in 
readiness for the next patient, for whom he had 
already touched his silver bell. 

“I knew it would be so,” said my friend, in 
describing the affair, “and his decision gave me 
no shock, as on the former occasion ; yet it moved 
me enough to show that I had not been so philo- 
sophic about the matter as I had flattered myself. 
My doctor, too, looked downcast; he must have 


UNDER SENTENCE OF DEATH. 


121 


been surer than I of the result of the consultation, 
and yet it had apparently dashed some hope. We 
were old acquaintances, and respected one another, 
but if it had been otherwise he would have been 
pained. Quite apart from all sordid considerations, 
a good doctor is always loth to lose a patient ; he 
has been put in charge of him, as it seems, and feels 
somehow answerable for his existence. 

“ ‘ I suppose you have known of this long ago ? ’ I 
said. 

“ ‘ I have suspected it,’ he replied, quietly, and it 
struck me for the first time, how often it must hap- 
pen that men who have no suspicion of the shadow 
which is dogging them, are in their doctor’s eyes 
perhaps even for years doomed men. 

4 ‘As we were driving home in his carriage together, 
I observed : ‘ From what Sir Francis said, I con- 
clude there is no immediate danger.’ 

“ ‘ No, yet — if you have anything to arrange for — 
you are a bachelor, I know ; but ’ 

“ I thanked him, and replied that my affairs were 
settled. Presently, ‘ Where would you recommend 
me to go,’ I inquired, ‘ for the spring ’ (it was then 
April), ‘ or, perhaps, I ought rather to say, for the 
early part of the spring ? ’ He took no notice of 
the latter part of this observation, which, perhaps, 
had a touch of bitterness in it, though I hope not. 

“ ‘ I should advise the south coast,’ he said. ‘Get 
as much fresh air as possible.’ There was not a 
word about diet ; the allusion Sir Francis had made 
to it had been only a delicate professional touch ; I 


122 


TINDER SENTENCE OF DEATH. 


was in that condition that the same undesirable 
license as to food was given me, as is accorded to 
the convict that is to be hanged on the morrow.” 

For a day or two my friend’s sensations (consider- 
ing the blameless man he was) were strangely in 
accordance with those of the condemned criminal 
whose 


“ Thought no more can wander free, 
But with drop, and rope, and beam, 
If he wake or if he dream, 

Must keep unbidden company.” 


His mind for that brief space dwelt (as he termed it) 
on the charnel. He even paid a visit to the spot 
where, in accordance with his own written instruc- 
tions, he was to be laid with his forefathers, and he 
perused, as he had often done before, but with very 
different feelings, the records of that great company 
of the dead for whom he was so soon to exchange 
his present acquaintances. 

“ To judge by what is said of them,” he afterward 
said, “ by those who should have known them best, 
they will be a very superior society.” 

My friend was a man without kith or kin, who 
lived alone, so there was unhappily no one to dis- 
tract him from such imaginings, which, however, 
his own natural good sense soon overcame. 

When he came down to Silverton-on-Sea, where 
I resided (a circumstance which I am glad to think 
decided him to select that spot wherein to pass his 
few remaining days), he had got over these material 


TINDER SENTENCE OF DEATH. 123 

and morbid thoughts, and had little indeed in com- 
mon with that imaginary evil-doer, whose life was 
about to be cut short, not more surely, if more 
swiftly, by the knife of the guillotine than his own 
by the shears of Fate. One feeling, however, he was 
long in getting rid of — namely, the painful sense 
that he was necessarily looking on this and that 
aspect of Nature for the last time. He did not 

l< Shriek to hear the hours 
Pass from out the dark jail towers ; ” 

but as the April days passed by he confessed to a 
frequent feeling of regret that he should never see 
another springtime. It gave him, I fancied, some 
distress when I inadvertently referred to anything 
that would happen in the near future, but of which 
he personally would not be a witness. Once, for 
example, when I mentioned that Silverton would 
present a different appearance in the late autumn, 
which was our “ season,” he answered, with a little 
sigh : “ But not to me.” 

This “ sick man’s egotism,” however, as he called 
it, he also presently got over. He had never been 
much of a politician, but the news of the day, 
though party feeling chanced just then to be run- 
ning very high, and there was great excitement 
throughout the country, had now absolutely no in- 
terest for him ; on the other hand, he spoke with 
unwonted animation and great hopefulness of the 
progress of certain principles which he had always 
had at heart. 


124 


UNDER SENTENCE OF DEATH . 


“I seem to myself,” he said, “like one who has 
reached the summit of some over-hanging hill, from 
which all that lies immediately beneath it is hidden, 
but whence a glorious view is obtained of the far 
distance.” 

What did come immediately under his eye, how- 
ever — the boatmen, the children playing on the 
shore, and even the few visitors that were staying in 
the place — attracted it ; he evinced great sympathy 
for his fellow-invalids, and would speculate with 
much interest upon their chances of recovery, and 
(strangely enough it seemed to me) upon whether 
it would be to their advantage to do so. He com- 
pared them, it seemed, to wounded soldiers lying 
on the battle-field, in doubt whether they would be 
rescued or not, for I heard him murmur to himself 
some lines from a poem that had been a favorite 
one with both of us : 

“ And some will awake in home mornings, and some, 

Dull slaves of the war, will still follow the drum.” 

When an old man met us leaning on his grand- 
son’s arm, but apparently in good health, he said : 
“I do not envy him ; I would rather leave before 
my part is played out, than lag superfluous on the 
stage.” 

“ That spoils the play for others, though,” I ven- 
tured gently to observe. 

“You mean for the friends one leaves behind ? ” 
he answered. “ It is kind of you to say so ; but I 
must confess to you that does not trouble me much. 


UNDER SENTENCE OF DEATH. 


125 


If I were leaving wife or child, or anyone who, as 
the phrase goes, could not ‘ get on without me,’ it 
would doubtless be different. As it is, I am not so 
egotistic as to imagine my loss will be a void. My 
sole regret — to be called so — is that I have not been 
a better man.” 

“ And yet I should think that you had much less 
than most men to reproach yourself with.” 

“ I don’t know as to that ; it is so difficult for man 
to weigh himself against his brother man ; God 
alone can hold the balance. We never can make al- 
lowances for this and that ; we only know that 

“ ‘ The slave and the tyrant alike account must render, 

The one of his sceptre, the other of his chain.’ 

But if you are pleased to consider me, upon the 
whole, above the average, I agree with you.” 

My friend was, in fact, one of the kindest and 
gentlest of men; I could not conceive of him as 
capable of a harshness ; and as I knew from many 
sources, he was leaving this world happier, if not 
better, than he had found it. Still, I thought it 
strange that he should hold this conviction of his 
own comparative merits. 

“I see,” he said, smiling, “you are astonished at 
my having, in my perilous state, so good an opinion 
'of myself. You mistake me a little there, however. 
Heaven forbid that I should be judged upon my 
merits. I know it is expected of a dying saint to 
proclaim himself the worst of sinners : a deplorable 
custom, to my mind, since so many who are prob- 


126 


UNDER SENTENCE OF DEATH. 


ably only average mortals are thereby disheartened 
in their own modest little strivings after virtue ; but 
as I am, unhappily, no saint, I find no comfort in 
this self-depreciation. 

“ ‘ He didn’t do much harm, nor yet much good, 

And might have been much better if he would,’ 

is an epitaph that would probably fit most of us. 
We are all sinners, of course ; but we do not all (as 
some divines would seem to affirm) make sinning 
our profession, and only occasionally deviate into 
well-doing! there are not more absolute villains, 
perhaps, in the world, than there are saints. Why, 
then, should I miscall myself a villain ? ” 

These observations were interesting to me, not 
only of themselves, and from the circumstances 
under which they were uttered, but because my 
friend had always seemed to me the representative 
of a large and growing, though little understood, 
class. It is not unjust, I suppose, to say that eighty 
out of every hundred of us, as regards matters 
of “fate, free-will, foreknowledge absolute,” never 
think at all. They have no time, they say, by which 
they mean no turn, for such things, and their think- 
ing is done for them. The other twenty per cent, 
consist of their teachers, and of more or less inde- 
pendent thinkers, of which, however, the majority* 
do not profess to be so, but to all outward seeming 
accept opinion as they find it. They go to church 
or chapel with their belongings, and when theolog- 
ical disputes arise among them, maintain a mod- 


TINDER SENTENCE OF DEATH. 


127 


est silence, as though vestments and wax candles on 
the one hand, or partial immersion on the other, 
were matters too high for them. To this diffident 
class my friend belonged. He thought, with the 
poet, that “ faith and prayers ” were “ among the 
privatest of men’s affairs,” and rarely discussed them 
even with his intimates. 

“I say again,” he continued gravely, “Heaven 
forbid that I should be judged upon my merits. 
Though my nature is neither criminal nor vicious, 
thoughts sometimes have come to me which have 
made me loathsome to myself, and which, if uttered 
in public, would have prevented any respectable per- 
son — yourself, for instance — ever speaking to me 
again. But I cannot suppose that I am alone in this. 
The mind of man, even of the best of men, is like a 
church, dedicated to holy uses, but with vaults be- 
neath it full of all uncleanness. If I am ‘past 
praying for,’ as the phrase goes, there must be mill- 
ions in a worse plight ; and in spite of the com- 
placency with which certain self-righteous sects af- 
firm the contrary, I cannot believe in the wholesale 
condemnation of the human race.” 

“ They would say,” I put in, “ that that was be- 
cause you have not faith.” 

“No doubt ; but they would be mistaken. I have, 
indeed, no faith in their particular dogmas, to believe 
which is no such very difficult task, by the bye, if one 
has the proper foundation — a hard heart and a 
sycophantic tongue — to build upon ; but I have 
faith where they have none — since they impute to 


128 


UNDER SENTENCE OF DEATH. 


Him cruelty and injustice — in the goodness of 
God.” 

“That is certainly not a complex creed,” I re- 
marked, “ and most people, I should have supposed, 
subscribe to it.” 

“ Simple as it is,” he rejoined, “ it includes every- 
thing ; and as to subscribing to it, I need not re- 
mind you, who took your degree at the university, 
that that is not the same thing as believing in it. 
The fact is, the vast majority of mankind shut their 
eyes to all facts that do not concern themselves. 
The cruelties, wrongs, and infamous degradations 
endured by the innocent, and which, even if per- 
mitted by man, would arouse our deepest indigna- 
tion against him, are no obstacles to their faith in 
Providence.” 

“ Yet the existence of evil in the world,” I ob- 
served, “ has always been a stumbling-block to the 
philosophers.” 

“lam not speaking of the philosophers, who, in 
the first place, are not numerous ; and in the second, 
who take these things, as it is only to be expected 
of them, very philosophically. That portion of 
mankind who do not themselves suffer from these 
enormities, either shut their eyes to them, as being 
none of their business, and even derive a certain 
satisfaction from their happening to other people, 
and not to them ; or, still more basely, acquiesce 
in them, with some idea of currying favor with 
Omnipotence — a feeling which is, indeed, at the 
bottom of many so-called religious creeds. ‘ What- 


UNDER SENTENCE OF DEATH. 


129 


ever is,’ they say, with folded hands and downcast 
eyes, no matter how terrible may be the abomina- 
tion, 4s right.’ They have even the hardihood to 
avow their belief in a Gehenna, upon the ground of 
its necessity for the punishment of millions of their 
fellow-creatures, who have led bad lives indeed, but 
who have never had the least chance of leading good 
ones ; they put the city arab and the infant Samuel 
on the same plane. Now, with those who think for 
themselves and feel for others, I am well convinced 
that the permission of wrong-doing on the earth is 
a much greater hindrance to true faith than all the 
dogmas that were ever invented.” 

“And does it hinder yours ? ” 

“ It did, most grievously ; but now it confirms it. 
For a long time I was obliged to be content with the 
aspiration that 


‘ ‘ ‘ Somehow good would be the final end of ill * 


— that 

“ ‘ Good would fall, 

At last — far off —at last to all ; * 

but now I am certain of it. Yes, my friend, a future 
state is necessary : it may be for the punishment of 
the wicked ; it must be for the redress of the innocent, 
whom they have so grievously wronged, and whose 
cry has gone up to Heaven, apparently without re- 
ply ; but, above all, for the justification of God’s ways 
to man. So far as I am personally concerned, I need 
9 


130 


UNDER SENTENCE OF DEATH. 


hardly say they need none, unless it be an explana- 
tion of why I have been so favored. I have been 
fortunate and happy far beyond my deserts ; I owe 
Him gratitude for ten thousand undeserved bless- 
ings, and it would be impious indeed to speak of 
Him for an instant as my debtor. But I think it 
neither impious nor displeasing to Him, as I re- 
flect upon the atrocities that are committed, not only 
in ‘ the dark places of the earth,’ which, as Holy 
Writ itself admits, are ‘full of the habitations of 
cruelty,’ but within a stone’s-throw of our church 
doors, to believe that they demand, and will receive? 
their vindication.” 

The fervor of emotion which my friend displayed 
astounded me, for it was foreign to his character ; 
his ideas, too, not a little surprised me. As regards 
the subjects on which he spoke, I had thought that 
what is called the Theory of Compensation had been 
wont to suffice him, and I said so. 

He nodded assent. 

“ You are right,” he said ; “ but when one has 
been sentenced to death, my good friend, one looks 
the future more fixedly in the face, and sees it more 
clearly.” 

“ But it is not man only who suffers from man’s 
cruelty,” I remarked. “ The over-driven horse, the 
starved and beaten hound, have also their claims to 
consideration. ” 

“No doubt of it,” he answered, gravely ; “ nor 
have I any doubt that they will be taken into the 
Great Account. I trust, with the poet, 


UNDER SENTENCE OF DEATH. 


131 


“ * That not a worm is cloven in vain; 

That not a moth with vain desire 
Is shrivelled in a fruitless fire, 

Or but subserves another’s gain.’ 

It is true,” he added, with humility. 

“ . . But what am I ? 

An infant crying in the night, 

An infant crying for the light, 

And with no language but a cry ; ’ 

and that, of course, is true of all of us. Yet I can- 
not but think that in my present state I am not 
quite 1 in the night,’ but dwell in a sort of twilight, 
which permits me to read upon the lessening wall 
between this world and the next that ‘ All is well.’ ” 

I certainly had never known my friend so calm 
and cheerful ; if confidence is faith, he had it ; and 
what he had to say upon that topic reminded me of 
him who 

“ Preached as one who ne’er should preach again, 

And as a dying man to dying men.” 

It was only once or twice, however, that he ad- 
verted to it. The physician who had pronounced he 
should suffer little pain had not deceived him ; and 
though it was easy to mark, even from day to day, 
the change for the worse that was taking place in 
him, he never spoke of it. On the other hand, he 
had a strange fancy for comparing his case with that 
of others in a similar condition. 

As I walked by his side upon the little esplanade 


132 


UNDER SENTENCE OF DEATH. 


one afternoon as usual, lie spoke of Cardinal Maza- 
rin’s last excursion in his wheeled chair, which, in 
his case, however, was a sedan. He reminded me of 
how that unscrupulous ecclesiastic had received his 
sentence from the court physician, and henceforth 
confined his conversation to the statement, “ Gue- 
naud has said it ; I must die ! Guenaud has said it.” 
Notwithstanding, just before his death he had his 
beard shaved, anddiis mustache curled with irons ; 
rouge was put upon his cheeks and lips, and he got 
himself painted so well that, as his biographer says, 
“ Never in his life had he looked so fair and rosy.” 

Thus adorned, he had the imprudence to be carried 
about the garden among the courtiers, who cruelly 
congratulated him upon his restoration to health. 
“ The air is good for you ; it has already produced 
a great change ; your excellency should take it 
often,” they said. The wickedest thing was re- 
marked by the Spanish ambassador, who, looking 
fixedly at the poor prime minister, remarked to a 
bystander very gravely, “ Este Senor representa muy 
bien el difunto Cardinal Mazarin ” (This gentleman 
reminds me very much of the deceased Cardinal 
Mazarin). 

The recollection of this scene (described in the 
“Memoirs of the Comte de Brienne”) tickled my 
friend amazingly ; he would often revert to it, and 
even dubbed himself, though by no means with my 
approval, “ the cardinal.” He was as humorous and 
amusing in his quiet way as he had ever been in his 
palmiest days of youth and health ; but it was not 


UNDER SENTENCE OF DEATH. 


133 


on that account, I hope, that I daily sought his so- 
ciety : that it pleased him to have an old friend by 
his side was, of course, an all-sufficient reason. 

Independently of that, however, his conversation 
had an extraordinary fascination for me. It exhib- 
ited a frankness and candor such as is rare indeed, 
and which it was impossible to mistrust ; while his 
views about matters beyond our ken, which had all 
the more interest in my eyes, because, as I have 
said, I believe them to be typical of a large and 
growing class, were expressed, not as speculations, 
but with all the force of conviction. His clearness 
of vision as to right and wrong was most remarkable. 
One day, when almost at his last, I ventured to ask 
him, though I had little doubt of what his reply 
would be, whether, if it might be so, he would pre- 
fer his sentence of death to be revoked. 

He shook his head and smiled. 

“ The only example we have of such a case,” he 
said, “is not encouraging. Remember Hezekiah 
and the dial of Ahaz.” 

I remarked that, though the king had certainly 
not made that use of his miraculous reprieve which 
one would have hoped for, Isaiah was a little hard 
upon him for the comparatively venial crime of 
boasting of his treasures. 

“ My dear fellow, Isaiah was quite right,” was my 
friend’s rejoinder ; “ Hezekiah was a bad lot. When 
he heard that all his treasures should be carried 
to Babylon, and his sons made captive there, he 
showed himself, under pretence of submission to the 


134 


UNDER SENTENCE OF DEATH. 


Divine will, just such an egotist as those modern 
religionists whom you and I have so often talked 
about : ‘ Good is the word of the Lord which thou 
hast spoken. Is it not good, if peace be in my 
days ? ’ — a reply which for its naive selfishness has, 
to my mind, never been equalled.” 

A time presently came when even exercise in a 
wheeled chair was too much for my poor friend. I 
then used to visit him twice a day in his lodgings. 
One evening, when leaving him, he struck me as 
looking much worse than I had hitherto seen him ; 
of course I made no allusion to it, but his eye, which 
was keen as ever, detected it in my face. 

As he took my hand and pressed it — but ah ! so 
gently — “ I know what you are thinking about, my 
dear friend,” he remarked, with his old smile. “You 
are thinking, “ ‘ How very much this gentleman re- 
minds me of the deceased cardinal ! ’ ” 

Those were his last words to me. I said I should 
look in on him the next morning without fail, and I 
did so ; but it was too late. 

“ He had another mom than ours.” 


GLEANINGS FROM DARK ANNALS. 





INTRODUCTION. 


The present writer has no intention of “ shocking” 
the public into becoming purchasers of this work — 
a method of applying Electricity to Circulation of 
which he has never approved. Remember, however, 
“we could do it, an we would.” There lives no 
reader so bald but that I could raise a hair or two 
upon him, if I chose, by the recital of horrid sto- 
ries. My brain is just now teeming with them. It 
has been my duty of late months— through certain 
exceptional circumstances, which need not be here 
explained — to wade through the red Catalogues of 
Human Crime. The motive which prompted, nay, 
compelled me so to do exists no longer, but the 
effect of these awful researches unfortunately re- 
mains. De Quincey tells us that he was dreadfully 
punished in dreams for having benevolently given 
a wandering Malay a portion of that opium which 
was his own habitual solace. Every night, through 
an association of ideas, excited by that contemptible 
tramp, the great philosopher was transported in 
imagination (which to him was reality) to Southern 
Asia — the cradle of the human race, and the seat 
of awful images and associations. He found him- 
self fixed for centuries at the summit of pagodas, or 
locked up in their secret rooms. He was the idol ; 


138 


INTRODUCTION. 


he was the priest; he was worshipped; he was 
sacrificed. Let him tell the dreadful story in his 
own half-humorous, half-ghastly way. “ I fled from 
the wrath of Brama through all the forests of Asia ; 
Yishnu hated me; Seeva lay in wait for me. I 
came suddenly upon Isis and Osiris ; I had done a 
deed, they said, which the ibis and the crocodile 
trembled at. Thousands of years I lived, and was 
buried in stone coffins, with mummies and sphinxes, 
in narrow chambers at the heart of eternal pyramids. 
I was kissed with cancerous kisses, by crocodiles, 
and was laid, confounded with unutterable abortions, 
among reeds and Nilotic mud.” 

I allow that these could not have been what are pop- 
ularly known and “ wished ” as “ pleasant dreams ; ” 
but compared to the nightly miseries that I have 
lately suffered, those slumbers of Mr. De Quincey 
were Elysian. Crocodiles and pagodas must convey 
a sense of unreality in their terrors, even in dreams. 
I do not believe, notwithstanding all his protesta- 
tions, that the opium-eater suffered as any imagina- 
tive linen-draper’s assistant would do on the night 
succeeding a Sunday spent in the perusal of the 
“ Newgate Calendar,” and ending with a supper of 
toasted cheese. The hours of sleep would probably 
be devoted to his autobiography, as a criminal of the 
deepest dye. Bemorse and terror would hunt him 
down in the most natural manner, until detection 
took him off their hands. Then he would smell 
rue : he would stand in the dock before the awful 
presence of the judge; the verdict “Guilty” would 


INTRODUCTION. 


139 


be most distinctly enunciated by the foreman of the 
jury ; and all the subsequent proceedings on the 
scaffold would be carried on with elaborate detail. 
Fortunate, indeed, for that imaginative apprentice 
if the demon of dreams was so far merciful; the 
probability is that he would seem to refuse to plead, 
and hear the following judgment read against him, 
ordained in all such cases of contumacy : “You 
shall be sent to the prison from whence you came, 
and put into a mean room, stopped from the light, 
and shall there be laid on the bare ground, without 
any litter, straw, or other covering. You shall lie 
upon your back; your head shall be covered, and 
your feet shall be bare. One of your arms shall be 
drawn with a cord to one side of the room, and the 
other arm to the other side ; and your legs shall be 
served in the like manner. Then shall be laid upon 
your body as much iron or stone as you can bear, 
and more. And the first day after, you shall have 
three morsels of barley-bread, without any drink, 
and the second day, you shall be allowed to drink as 
much as you can, at three times, of water that is 
next the prison-door, except running water, without 
any bread ; and this shall be your diet till you die.” 
Then the imaginative apprentice would (in night- 
mare) be pressed to death with deliberation, and 
suffer the just punishment of reading such sad lit- 
erature upon a Sunday, followed by toasted cheese. 

Now, although the present writer eats no supper, 
the “Newgate Calendar” is but as a work of the 
late estimable Mrs. Barbauld, compared with those 


140 


INTRODUCTION. 


which have (perforce) formed the subject of his stud- 
ies for the last six months or so. Crime, ancient 
and modern ; crime, foreign, British, and colonial ; 
and punishments, far worse than crime — abhorrent, 
unnatural, prolonged — these things have formed my 
sole literary food of late, and I have only just risen 
from the banquet. Do not imagine, therefore, that 
any periodical, however cheap, however profusely 
illustrated, however bent upon elevating the masses 
by the sublime engine of Terror, could compete 
with me, if I only chose to take up that highly 
popular line, in the cheerful art of chilling the blood 
and marrow. Given the desire on my own part, and 
I flatter myself I could make a good many people’s 
nights uncomfortable. 

There was at one time exhibiting on a blank wall 
in London a magnificent painting, designed, doubt- 
less, to increase the circulation of some cheap 
periodical ; the coloring was gorgeous, and the scale 
of the picture a little over life-size ; the subject was 
as follows : The scene was a sort of domed chamber, 
of immense extent, in which sat a number of judicial 
persons, masked. A human figure, doubtless the 
accused person, tightly bound, was suspended from 
the ceiling (like a chandelier), and oscillated from 
side to side of it ; the oscillations, themselves in- 
convenient, were rendered more so by two enormous 
torches, placed opposite to one another, into one or 
other of which the human pendulum infallibly swung 
at the end of each vibration. His examination was 
conducted during the interval of aerial passage, when 


INTRODUCTION. 


141 


he was not singeing, and his replies (which must 
have been singularly clear and valuable) were set 
down in writing by the judges. Altogether, it was 
an exciting illustration, and reflected equal credit 
upon the brain that conceived it, the hand that exe- 
cuted it, and the bill-sticker, who had placed it in 
a most excellent situation in New Oxford Street, 
where nobody could fail to see it. But as for any 
terror that the author of that scene designed to ex- 
cite in my individual bosom — why, compared to 
certain real situations which it (unhappily) recalled 
at once to my memory, it seemed quite a humane 
and dignified method of conducting a criminal in- 
vestigation. If, on the other hand, it was intended 
as an illustration of the severity of punishment — to 
me, so recently familiar with the desperate wicked- 
nesses which have before now been legally committed 
under that title, it seems calculated (by its mildness) 
to bring the fine old criminal laws of our own, and 
especially of a neighboring country, into contempt. 

What was it, for instance, as a punishment, com- 
pared to that of Madame Gamp of Paris (no Mrs. 
Harris, remember, but a real person), condemned 
for the murder of no less than sixty infants, and 
executed on the 28th of May, 1672? “A gibbet 
was erected, under which a fire was made and the 
prisoner, being brought to the place of execution, 
was hung up in a large iron cage, in which were also 
placed sixteen wild cats, which had been caught in 
the woods for that purpose. When the heat of the 
fire became unendurable, the cats flew upon the 


142 


INTRODUCTION. 


woman, as the cause of the intense pain they felt. 

In about fifteen minutes ” But that surely is 

enough, and more than enough, to convince folk that 
the present writer possesses some very rare material 
indeed for sensation writing, if he only chose to use it. 

Having, however, exhibited his power for evil, 
let him hasten to show himself to be the harm- 
less being he naturally is. In sober fact, his works 
have been hitherto of rather a moral and didactic 
character. He naturally belongs to the school of 
Mrs. Hannah More ; he has written poems (but far 
from passionate ones) upon the affections ; he even 
thinks “ there is something to be said ” for the 
principles of the vegetarians. The respectable 
public may feel themselves, therefore, perfectly safe 
in his spotless hands, even when he takes Crime for 
his subject. Let them be assured that nothing to 
raise the hair upon the head of infancy, or the blush 
upon the cheek of innocence, will emanate from his 
pen, though it is extracting from the annals of jus- 
tice. He must write about them , because his head 
(as has been stated) is full of nothing else, and the 
head has something to do with literature still, all 
detraction notwithstanding ; but he will set down 
nothing alarming, nothing shocking ; he “ will roar 
you as gently as any sucking-dove, he will roar you 
an ’twere any nightingale.” For in the hideous 
abyss of crime in which he has been groping, there 
are some things not hideous, nor even unlovely. 
There are not a few that are humorous and amus- 
ing. There are many that point a moral even for 


INTRODUCTION . 


143 


the best of us ; while it is needless to say that al- 
most all have a deep human interest. They inter- 
est us intensely even now, as we read their written 
record. But what must have been the attraction 
of each case at the time of its occurrence ! How 
the coffee-houses must have rung with it ! How the 
newspapers must have teemed with it ! How the 
coachmen and guards of the royal mails must have 
been importuned by open-mouthed country folks to 
tell the latest particulars of it ! What wretchedness 
must have been caused by it, not only in the per- 
sons who suffered at the hands of the criminal, and 
in the criminal himself, but, what is far worse, in 
his (or her) innocent relatives or friends ! 

The romance of the matter lies almost always 
among these last ; the rogues themselves are for the 
most part commonplace, and (but for the severity 
of their punishment) unpitiable enough. The chi- 
valric Turpin, so celebrated in song and fiction, is 
in sober prose a brutal ruffian, who places a most 
respectable elderly lady on the fire, to persuade her 
to reveal the hiding-place of her silver spoons ; who 
drinks to such a degree that he forgets his profes- 
sional engagements, and who robs poor servant-girls 
in spite of the merciful entreaties of his own com- 
panions. The hero of the “ Colleen Bawn ” and his 
devoted foster-brother are, off the stage, a couple of 
remorseless villains, who quarrel about money, and 
then denounce one another ; instead of merely drown- 
ing the lovely Ellen in a picturesque lake, they cut 
her to pieces, just as the unromantic Greenacre 


144 


INTRODUCTION. 


served his less lamented victim, and one of them 
sells her clothes. It is singular how any halo can 
grow around such wretches as these, no matter what 
period of time may have elapsed since the commis- 
sion of their enormities ; but what is still more 
wonderful, they were often canonized at the very 
time when their guilt was most apparent. Turpin, 
for instance, with nothing but his good looks to 
recommend him, was rescued after death from the 
hands of the surgeons by the populace of York, who, 
after carrying his body in procession through the 
town, replaced him in the grave from which science 
had stolen him, and filled his coffin with unslacked 
lime, to prevent any future profanation of the body 
of their favorite. 

A still more remarkable instance of misplaced 
sympathy was exhibited in the case of one Hartley, 
an unmitigated scoundrel and footpad, who was 
ha aged at Tyburn in 1722. Six young women 
dressed in white betook themselves to St. James’s 
to present a petition in his behalf. The singularity 
of their appearance gained them an interview with 
Majesty, whom they informed that if he w T ould but 
pardon the offender, they would cast lots for which 
should be the future Mrs. Hartley. The king, how- 
ever, very properly observed that the fellow was 
more worthy of the gallows than to be the husband 
of any of these charming suppliants. Their prayer 
was the more singular, since Hartley was a widower, 
and had married his first wife for a reason which he 
took no pains to conceal. 


INTRODUCTION. 


145 


N “ She was a worthy woman,” he said, “ whose 
first husband happening to be hanged, I married 
her, that she might not reproach me with a repeti- 
tion of his virtues.” 

With such a warning so immediately before him, 
one would have thought that Mr. Hartley would 
have been careful to avoid the fatal tree. The very 
contrary of this, however, seems to be the case with 
most criminals, and may well be considered in judg- 
ing of the demerits of public executions. Famili- 
arity with the scaffold always bred contempt. Mr. 
John Smith, a housebreaker, was hung (upon four 
convictions) on a certain 5th of December. After a 
quarter of an hour’s suspension, a reprieve arrived, 
which would have been too tardy for most people, 
but upon this malefactor’s being cut down, life was 
still found in him, and he was resuscitated. He 
pleaded to his pardon on the following February, 
but in a little while appeared again in the prisoners’ 
dock, charged with a new offence of the same kind. 
In consequence of some technical difficulties, the 
jury brought in a special verdict, in consequence of 
which the affair was left to the opinion of the twelve 
judges, who decided in his favor. After this second 
escape, he was again indicted for fresh crimes, and 
again escaped the halter by dying a natural death 
within the prison walls. Nay, we even find the 
very executioner, Jack Ketch himself, in the person 
of one John Price, incurring the last penalty of the 
law. He had filled his dreadful office for some 
years, and had probably witnessed the last moments 
10 


116 


INTRODUCTION. 


of hundreds of his fellow-creatures, had watched their 
agonies of mind and body, had listended to their 
exhortations and their prayers. All this, however, 
seems only to have rendered the man totally cal- 
lous. Being a person of extravagant habits, he was 
on one occasion actually arrested in the cart on his 
return from an execution, and only discharged from 
custody “by payment of the wages he had that day 
earned, and the produce of the three suits of clothes 
taken from the bodies of the executed men ; ” after- 
ward he was lodged in the Marshalsea for debt, 
and “being unable to attend his business at the 
next sessions of the Old Bailey,” he lost his pecu- 
liar “ Government situation.” After this, breaking 
out of prison, Mr. John Price commited a particu- 
larly atrocious murder, and himself suffered death, 
at the hands of his successor, in 1718. 

Such examples as these, of which we might adduce 
a hundred others, are not only curiosities of crime, 
but a lesson for our legislators, which they have only 
just — and very tardily — learned. A spectacle which 
was thus lost upon the hangman was not likely to 
have much moral influence upon a licentious mob, 
who made a gala of an execution morning. Not half 
a century ago there was an average of two of these 
'per week , or if the exhibitions were rarer, they were 
enhanced by the presence of a proportionate num- 
ber of victims. Notwithstanding the frequency of 
these savage festivals, they were always excessively 
popular ; while if there was anything at all extraor- 
dinary about the crime to be expiated, the “ danger- 


INTRODUCTION. 


147 


ous classes ” heaved and bellowed in front of Newgate 
like a stormy sea. Upon one occasion these unfor- 
tunate persons paid dearly enough for their brutal 
curiosity. Two men, called Holloway and Haggerty, 
were sentenced to be hung on February 23, 1807, for 
a murder committed no less than five years previ- 
ously. There really seems to have been some doubt 
of their guilt, and the excitement of the populace 
arose to the highest pitch. The crowd to witness 
their execution was (considering the narrowness of 
the locality) quite unparalleled, and was computed 
at 40,000. The pressure was such that, long before 
the malefactors appeared, numbers of persons were 
crying out in vain to escape, while their attempts to 
do so only increased the confusion. The screams of 
the women were dreadful. From all parts arose 
cries of “ Murder ! murder ! ” and females and chil- 
dren were seen expiring, without the possibility of 
affording them the least assistance. At Green Ar- 
bor Lane (nearly opposite to the debtors’ door) a 
frightful occurrence took place. A pieman’s basket 
(which stood on a sort of four-legged table) was 
overturned, and the people fell over the basket and 
the man as he strove to recover his wares. Those 
who did so never rose again. A poor woman, with 
a child at her breast, however, forced it into the 
arms of the man nearest to her, as she fell, adjuring 
him, for God’s sake, to save its life. The man, him- 
self in great personal danger, threw the infant from 
him, which was caught by another man ; and so from 
hand to hand it passed, until a good-natured fellow 


148 


INTRODUCTION. 


contrived to struggle with it under a cart, where he 
deposited it in safety till the danger was over and 
the mob dispersed. Seven persons lost their lives 
in the centre of the throng by suffocation alone. A 
great portion fought with one another with the like 
savage fury wherewith the prisoners in the Black 
Hole of Calcutta contended for the window. Dur- 
ing the hour appointed for the suspension of the 
criminals small assistance could be afforded, but 
after they were cut down, the constables cleared the 
streets, in which they found nearly one hundred 
persons dead or insensible. It does not appear that 
the survivors received any moral benefit even from 
this. If the example of public executions, however, 
is salutary, what a pattern population ought we not 
to have had in those early times! Forgery was an 
offence seldom if ever pardoned, yet bank forgeries 
increased in number from January, 1798, to Janu- 
ary, 1819, enormously. In the first of those years 
there were 15 prosecutions for this offence, and in 
the last, 242 ! The most venial crime subjected the 
prisoner to the severest punishment. No wonder 
the satirist exclaimed : 

“ Scarce can our fields, such crowds at Tyburn die, 

With hemp the gallows and the fleet supply.” 


More offences were made capital during the single 
reign of George III. than during the reigns of all the 
Plantagenets, Tudors, and Stuarts put together. In 
the nine years between 1819 and 1825 (both inclu- 


INTRODUCTION. 


149 


sive), no less than 7,770 were sentenced to death, 
although only 579 were actually executed. Unless 
so much mercy as this was shown, it was well under- 
stood that juries would not convict, preferring to 
violate their oaths rather than thus to purvey 
victims by wholesale to the shambles of the law. 
A few years previously, matters were still worse. 
In 1785 no less than twenty persons were execut- 
ed at once, before Newgate, and not one of them 
for any offence which is not capital. In 1789, 118 
prisoners lay under sentence of death together. 
They were brought to the bar of the Old Bailey 
by ten at a time, and individually offered the 
king’s pardon on condition of being transported to 
Botany Bay for life. The contrast between such a 
state of things and the present is still more marked 
by the following circumstance : The horrors of 
transportation were then so well understood, that 
several of these unhappy men refused to receive the 
proffered boon. Instead of the “ Thank you, my 
lord,” with which the prisoner now receives his sen- 
tence of penal servitude, eight of these criminals 
chose rather to die than to be transported. The 
recorder addressed himself to each, exhorting them 
“ not to treat the benignity of their sovereign with 
contempt, and so to add, by a refusal of his mercy, 
the crime of self-murder to those for which their 
lives had become forfeited.” But all was useless ; 
they were remanded to Newgate, and placed in the 
condemned cells. On the same day, however, the 
chaplain persuaded five out of the eight to think 


150 


INTRODUCTION. 


better of their strange determination. The adjourn- 
ment of the court was then delayed, in hopes of the 
giving in of the recalcitrant three, but in vain. The 
warrant for their execution was made out, upon 
which two out of the three accepted the offered 
terms. The third refused to do so until the scaffold 
had been erected, and the sheriff was actually 
escorting him to his doom. 

As a general rule, it was not the mere hanging 
that the criminals of old objected to, but the being 
dissected — “ teased,” as they called it — afterward. 
“ I have killed the best wife in the world,” observed 
Vincent Davis, upon his apprehension for that awful 
act, “ and I am certain of being hanged ; but, for 
God’s sake, don’t let me be anatomized ! ” They 
had an equal horror of being hung in chains. Jack- 
son, who was one of the chief actors in the most 
diabolical murder in the annals of British crime — 
that of the two unfortunate excisemen in Sussex — 
was so struck with terror at being measured for his 
irons, that he expired upon the spot. 

The ignorance which is the characteristic of most 
of the criminals of to-day was, in the case of their 
prototypes, stupendous. The thought that most en- 
grossed the mind of the condemned was, to remem- 
ber to kick off his shoes when he reached the 
scaffold, in order to defeat the prophecy (often ut- 
tered against him, probably, in his misspent youth) 
that he would die in them. They quite believed in 
the virtue of their own dead hands applied to warts 
and wens, and as soon as they were “ turned off,” it 


INTRODUCTION'. 


151 


was the perquisite of the executioner to admit per- 
sons upon the scaffold to be “ touched ” for those 
defects. 

John Young, condemned for forgery in 1748, in 
Edinburgh, having heard that the crown law of Scot- 
land enacted that condemned prisoners should be 
executed between two and four o’clock, persuaded 
himself that if he could procrastinate his fate be- 
yond that time his life would be preserved. There- 
upon he actually secured the iron door of his room 
in such a manner that when the hour of death ar- 
rived his gaoler could not get at him. A number 
of smiths and masons were sent for, but no admit- 
tance could be obtained ; while they were all of 
opinion that an aperture could not be made in the 
wall without endangering the whole fabric. In 
these strange circumstances, the lord-provost and 
other magistrates assembled together and debated 
as to what should be done, when it was determined 
to enter the room by breaking through the floor of 
that immediately above it. Six soldiers descended 
in this mamier, and after a sharp conflict the un- 
happy man was secured and carried to execution. 
This instance is remarkable as contrasting with the 
accurate understanding displayed nowadays, even 
by the most boorish criminals, of the state of the 
law and of all things that affect their individual 
offence. 

Prisoners of a higher class sometimes adopted 
scarcely less curious methods for the preservation 
of their lives. Gahagan and Conner, condemned 


152 


INTRODUCTION. 


“for diminishing the current coin of the realm,” 
about the same time as Young, composed poetical 
addresses, the one, “To the Duchess of Queens- 
berry,” and the other, “ To His Royal Highness 
Prince George” (afterward King George III.), eldest 
son to Frederick, Prince of Wales, on his acting the 
part of Cato at Leicester House. 

“ Hail, little Cato, taught to tread tlie stage, 

Awful as Cato of the Roman age ; 

How vast the hopes of tliy maturer years, 

When in the hoy such manly power appears.” 

If ever flattery was excusable, it certainly was so 
in the case of this unhappy poet, about whose 
verses, nowhere absolutely contemptible, there is a 
real pathos at the conclusion. About to prophesy 
all sorts of glory to the future monarch, the author 
is overwhelmed by his own immediate w T retched- 
ness : 


“ The captive Muse forbids the lays, 

Unfit to stretch the merit I would praise. 

Such at whose heels no galling shackles ring 
May raise the voice and boldly touch the string ; 

But I, cramped hand and foot, in gaol must stay, 
Dreading each hour the execution day ; 

Nor will my Pegasus obey the rod, 

With massy iron barbarously shod ; 

Thrice I essayed to force him up the height, 

And thrice the painful gyves restrained his flight.” 

The same author also, while in gaol, translated Pope’s 
“Messiah ” into Latin verse, and dedicated it to the 
then prime minister, the Duke of Newcastle. But 


INTRODUCTION . 


153 


neither ancient nor modern muse availed him. The 
only merciful institution of those good old times 
was the gaol fever. 

These things are sad to read of, albeit the com- 
parison of now with then should fill us with cheer- 
ful joy — and all but the morbid are glad to escape 
from them. It will be the aim of this writer to 
confine his future chapters, as much as possible, to 
the more curious leaves of these dark annals ; to 
narrations of mystery, of humor, and of pathos, 
leaving “ the triple tree ” and its sad fruit un- 
touched. No chronological order will be preserved 
in the narrations ; but in order to start with dig- 
nity, I propose to commence with a couple of his- 
torical inquiries — “ Who killed Charles I. ? And 
was his royal body hung in chains at Tyburn ? ” * 

* The site of the famous “ Tree ” is now occupied by a house 
in Connaught Square. 


WAS KING CHARLES HUNG IN 
CHAINS ? 

A very excellent, but not altogether novel, riddle 
inquires of us : “ Where did the executioner of 

Charles I. get his dinner upon that fatal day, and of 
what did it consist ? ” to which the ridiculous an- 
swer is returned : “ He took a chop at the King’s 
Head in Westminster.” But although we have long 
possessed this unnecessary detail of his proceedings, 
yet, at the period of the event in question, not only 
was little known concerning this bloody minister of 
the law — if law it was — but even his very identity 
was disputed. 

Among the nine-and-twenty regicides put upon 
their trial appears the name of William Hulet, ac- 
cused not only of imagining and compassing his late 
Majesty’s death, but of being the very man who 
struck the blow. It had fared ill enough with all the 
prisoners whose trial had preceded his own, and it 
was not likely that Hulet — the man of the bloody 
hand — should escape from any absence of Crown 
evidence. There was plenty of that at the Old 
Bailey, October 10, 1660. Since the king himself 
had been put to death illegally, his enemies were not 
to escape through the overstraining of mercy or 


WAS KING CHARLES HUNG IN CHAINS? 155 


fairness. The judicial proceedings, says Ludlow, 
“ were purposely delayed during the time Mr. Love 
was to continue sheriff of London ; he being no way 
to be induced, either for fear or hopes, to permit 
juries to be packed in order to second the designs of 
the Court. But after new sheriffs had been chosen 
more proper to serve the present occasion, a com- 
mission for hearing and determining the matter was 
directed to thirty-four persons, of whom fifteen had 
actually engaged for the Parliament against the late 
king.” If the zeal of the apostate is to be feared by 
his former friends, the regicides certainly stood in 
peril. The Duke of Albemarle, late Colonel George 
Monk, was one of this special commission ; he who 
afterward “not only acquiesced in the insults so 
meanly put upon the corpse of Blake, under whose 
auspices and command he had performed the most 
creditable services of his life, but, in the trial of 
Argyle, produced letters of friendship and confi- 
dence to take away the life of a noble man, the zeal 
and cordiality of whose co-operation with him, 
proved by such documents, was the chief ground of 
his execution.” The Earl of Manchester and Denzil 
Hollis, Esq., were also on the commission, formerly 
two of the six members designed for execution by 
the late king, personally concerned in the Great 
Quarrel, and “ who had contributed the utmost of 
their endeavors to engage divers of the gentlemen 
(upon whom they were now to sit as judges) on that 
(the Parliamentary) side.” Mr. Arthur Annesley 
had actually been a member of the Parliament 


156 WAS KING CHARLES HUNG IN CHAINS f 


while it had made war upon the king ; Finch, con- 
demned for high treason twenty years before, had 
only escaped by flight ; while Sir Oliver Bridgeman, 
“ who, upon his submission to Cromwell, had been 
permitted to practise the law in a private manner, 
and under that color had served both as spy and 
agent for his master, was intrusted with the principal 
management of the tragical scene.” 

Even in that awful trial-scene, but a few years 
before, in revenge for which the present proceedings 
were held, there could have been scarcely more 
strange and powerful elements of tragedy ; not only 
were now the places of accused and accusers re- 
versed, but the very tribunal of justice was, in great 
part, composed of men who were equally liable with 
the prisoners to be placed at the bar ; while the 
fickle populace, who, when their monarch was on 
his trial, so sympathized with him that the sol- 
diers of the Commonwealth could not reduce them 
to silence, now as openly expressed their scorn of 
the unfair proceedings instituted against his foes. 
Wien Mr. Windham, in a speech of more loyalty 
than logic, was urging for a conviction : “ I think a 
clearer evidence of a fact can never be given than 
is for these things,” we are told, here the specta- 
tors hummed ; * and the Lord Chief Baron besought 
them not to turn a court of justice into a farce — as 
though that transformation had not in reality taken 
place. 

“ Guilty,” “ Guilty,” “ Guilty,” had been the monot- 
* State Trials, vol. v. f p. 1025. 


WAS KING CHARLES HUNG IN CHAINS? 157 


onous verdict of the grand-jury with respect to all 
the prisoners that had preceded William Hulet ; and 
they had been removed from their places, either at 
the pregnant “ Look to him, keeper,” of the clerk of 
the court, or after the dreadful sentence of the judge : 
“You that are the prisoner at the bar, you are to re- 
ceive the sentence of death, which sentence is this : 
‘ The judgment of this Court is, and the Court doth 
award, that you be led back to the place from 
whence you came, and from thence to be drawn upon 
a hurdle to the place of execution, and there you 
shall be hanged by the neck, and being alive, shall 
be cut down. . . . and your entrails to be taken 

out of your body, and you living, the same to be 
burned before your eyes, and your head to be cut 
off, your body to be divided into four quarters, and 
head and quarters to be disposed of at the pleasure 
of the king’s majesty ; and the Lord have mercy upon 
your soul.’ ” 

How strangely does the word “mercy” peep out, 
like a daisy in a battle-field, amid that savage and 
loathsome sentence. The manner in which the 
Court “ directs,” and the counsel for the Crown im- 
ply, are evidence enough of a foregone conclusion in 
all the cases ; and to save time and useless conten- 
tion, several of the accused plead guilty at once, and, 
like predestinated sheep, are “set aside.” In Hulet’s 
case, Sir Edward Turner, attorney to his Highness 
the Duke of York, himself one of the commission, 
seems to appear for the prosecution. “ May it please 
your lordships, and you gentlemen that are sworn of 


158 WAS KING CHARLES HUNG IN CHAINS t 


this jury, we are now entering upon the last act of 
this sad tragedy of the murder of the late king. 
There have been before you some of the judges, the 
counsel, the chaplain, and the guard ; this prisoner 
at the bar, in the last place, was one of those which 
came with a frock on his body and a vizor on his 
face to do the work. . . . And we doubt not to 

pluck off his vizor by and by.” With this delicate 
joke, the proceedings involving the life or death of 
the accused person commence. 

One Bichard Gittens, being formerly in the same 
regiment as the prisoner, and a sergeant, as lie also 
was at that time, states that about two or three days 
before the king’s execution their colonel, Hewson, 
sent for thirty-eight of his comrades, including the 
prisoner and himself, and having sworn them all to 
secrecy, inquires which of them will undertake the 
headsman’s duty ; adding, that whosoever does so 
shall receive a hundred pounds down, and prefer- 
ment in the army. “ All refused, and we thought 
Captain Hulet did refuse.” However, at the execu- 
tion, the witness, “ bustling to get near ” the scaffold, 
sees Hulet, “ as far as he can guess,” falling on his 
knees to ask forgiveness of the king before striking 
the fatal blow. He thought it was he by his speech. 
Captain Atkins thought so too. “ I told him (At- 
kins) I would not do it for all the city of London.” 

“ ‘ No, nor I either for all the world,’ saith Atkins; 
‘but you shall see Hulet quickly come to prefer- 
ment;’ and presently after he was made captain- 
lieutenant.” 


KING CHARLES HUNG IN CHAINS? 159 


The counsel inquires whether the witness recog- 
nized Hulet in any other respect besides his voice. 

“ He had a pair of frieze trunk breeches, and a vizor 
with a gray beard ; and after that time Colonel 
Hewson called him ‘ Father Graybeard,’ and most 
of the army likewise ; he cannot deny it.” 

Hulet does, however, resolutely deny it. 

Stammers, another witness, states that nine years 
after the execution the prisoner, having known him 
but for two days, sent for him to his chamber, and 
confessed to him : “ I was the man that beheaded 
King Charles, and for doing it I had a hundred 
pounds ; I was a sergeant at that time.” 

The accused, denying this, asks who it was that 
was sent for him, and Stammers cannot remember, 
“it was so long ago.” Captain Toogood being 
sworn, deposes that at the White Horse in Carlow 
he asked the prisoner, whom he had been told had 
cut the king’s head off, whether that was true or no. 
“ He told me it was true ; that he was one of the 
two persons that were disguised upon the scaffold. 
I asked him, what if the king had refused to submit 
to the block ? Saith he : ‘ There were staples placed 
about the scaffold, and I had that about me which 
would have compelled him.’ It was generally re- 
ported in Ireland that he was the man that cut off 
the king’s head, or that held it up, and I have 
sometimes heard him called Grandsire Graybeard. 
On one occasion, being accused thereof, he replied : 
‘ Well, what I did I will not be ashamed of ; if it 
were to do again, I would do it.’ ” 


160 WAS KING CHARLES HUNG IN CHAINS? 


One Walter Davis deposes to have asked the 
accused this same question, and to have received for 
answer : “ Sir, it was a question I never resolved 
any man, though often demanded ; yet whosoever 
said it then, it matters not, I say it now — it was the 
head of a traitor.” 

Colonel Nelson witnesses to having had a conver- 
sation with Colonel Axtell (a regicide already con- 
demned) as to the matter in question. “ Axtell 
said I knew those two disguised persons on the 
scaffold as well as himself ; 4 they have been upon 
service with you many a time.’ We pitched upon 
two stout fellows. It was Walker and Hulet. 4 Who 
gave the blow ? ’ said I. Saith he : 4 Poor Walker, 
and Hulet took up the head.’ I am not sure whether 
they had thirty pounds apiece, or thirty pounds 
between them.” Colonel Tomlinson cannot swear 
to the precise garments of the masked men on the 
scaffold. 44 They had, however, close garments to 
their bodies ; they had hair on their faces ; one was 
gray the other was flaxen. I think he with the gray 
hair struck the blow.” 

Benjamin Francis is a very eager' witness. 44 My 
lords and gentlemen of the jury, as to the prisoner 
at the bar, he was very active in that horrid act. 
There was two of them had both clothes alike. 
They were in butchers’ habits of woollen. One had 
a black hat and black beard, and the other a gray 
grizzled periwig hung very low. I affirm that he who 
cut off the king’s head was in the gray periwig, and 
I believe this was about that man’s stature (pointing 


WAS KING CHARLES HUNG IN CHAINS? 101 


to Mr. Hulet), and his beard was of the same color, 
if he had any.” * 

Counsel here begs to observe that fuller evidence 
cannot be expected than that which has been given. 
The prisoner has heard all the witnesses ; what has 
he to say for himself ? 

With respect to this fulness of evidence, it has 
been certainly sufficiently amplified, the few per- 
tinent sentences we have extracted being selected 
from a mass of irrelevant and hearsay matter. The 
inquiry concerning his majesty’s execution, indeed, 
resembles nothing so much as the evidence in an- 
other pathetic story, which has drawn many tears 
from simple eyes, namely, “ Who killed Cock 
Robin ? ” There is the fly with his little eye, and 
he saw him die over and over again ; there is even 
the fish who caught his blood, in the person of 
many who dipped their handkerchiefs in the 
sacred stream; but, after all, nobody can point 
out the murderer. There is no confession of the 
sparrow, to make matters easy, as in Cock Robin’s 
case. On the contrary, the prisoner states that he 
could prove an alibi, if only he may be allowed 
time to send for certain witnesses; that he has 
been in confinement, and unable to procure them 
hitherto ; that so far from cutting the king’s head 
off, he was imprisoned with nine other sergeants 
for refusing to be upon the scaffold. He demands 
that the prisoners be put upon oath as to who 

* Conceive what would become of such loose statements as 
these in a modern court of justice, and under cross-examination ! 

11 


162 WAS KING CHARLES HUNG IN CHAINS f 


did the deed with which he stands charged, for 
that they could clear him. 

The Lord Chief Baron conceives that that would 
be a pretty thing indeed; “notwithstanding, it is 
supposed there are some in court that can say some- 
thing tending to the information of the jury, but they 
are not to be admitted upon oath against the Icing” 

Hereupon, a sheriff-officer (but an honest fellow, 
one would think) voluntarily comes forward, and in 
the usual loose fashion evidences that he knows a 
man, one J ohn Kooten, who told him that he was in 
Rosemary Lane a little after the execution, drinking 
with the common hangman, Gregory Brandon, and 
urging him whether he did this deed. 

“ God forgive me,” said the hangman ; “I did it, 
and I had forty half-crowns for my pains.” 

A second witness, one Abraham Smith, a water- 
man, furnishes some very curious but admirably 
natural matter. 

“ My lord, so soon as that fatal blow was given — 
I was walking about Whitehall — down came a file of 
musketeers. The first word they said was this : 
£ Where be the bargemen ? ’ Answer was made : 

‘ Here are none.’ Away they directed the hangman 
into my boat. Going into the boat, he gave one of the 
soldiers half-a-crown. Said the soldiers : ‘ Water- 

man, away with him, begone quickly.’ But I fearing 
this hangman had cut off the king’s head, I trembled 
that he should come into my boat, but dared not to 
examine him on shore for fear of the soldiers ; so out 
I launched, and having got a little way in the water, 


WAS KING CHARLES HUNG IN CHAINS? 103 

said I : ‘ Who the devil have I got in my boat ? ’ Says 
my fellow, says he : 5 Why ? ’ I directed my speech 
to him, saying : * Are you the hangman that cut off 

the king’s head ? ’ ‘ No, as I am a sinner to God, ’ 

saith he, ‘ not I.’ He shook, every joint of him. I 
knew not what to do ; I rowed a little way further, and 
fell to a new examination of him, when I had got him 
a little further. ‘ Tell me true,’ said I, ‘ are you the 
hangman that hath cut off the king’s head ? I cannot 
carry you,’ said I. ‘ No,’ saith he ; ‘I was fetched 
with a troop of horse, and I was kept a close prisoner 
at Whitehall, and truly I did not do it ; I was kept a 
close prisoner all the while ; but they had my instru- 
ments.’ I said I would sink the boat [O Abraham 
Smith, Abraham Smith !] if he did not tell me true ; 
but he denied it with several protestations.” 

No shorthand writer of to-day has probably ever 
presented us with a piece of evidence more accurate 
than the above. There is something truly Shake- 
spearian about its dramatic truth. How often must 
the man have told this tale, with all its redundancies 
and repetitions, in tap-rooms and snug parlors ! The 
coloring was probably altered to suit his audience. 
When the men of the Protector’s guard asked him to 
narrate that singular personal experience for their 
edification, he probably spared them much of the 
sentiment. To all unbiassed persons, however, Water- 
man Smith is a witness whose testimony outweighs 
all the rest, albeit his threat of sinking the boat (his 
own boat, and himself on board of it) is a little too 
enthusiastic even for the occasion. 


164 WAS KING CHARLES HUNG IN CHAINS? 

William Cox deposes, more poetically, to the same 
effect, namely, that it was Brandon who did the 
deed. 

“ When my Lord Capell, Duke of Hamilton, and 
the Earl of Holland were beheaded in Palace Yard, 
in Westminster, my Lord Capell asked the common 
hangman, said he : ‘ Did you cut off my master’s 

head?’ ‘ Yes,’ saith he. ‘Where is the instrument 
that did it ? ’ He then brought the axe. £ This is the 
same axe, are you sure ? ’ saith my lord. ‘ Yes, my 
lord,’ said the hangman ; ‘ I am very sure it is the 
same.’ My Lord Capell took the axe, and kissed it, 
and gave him five pieces of gold. I heard him say : 
* Sirrah, wert thou not afraid? ’ Saith the hangman: 
‘ They made me cut it off, and I had thirty pounds 
for my pains.’ ” 

The Lord Chief Baron sums up, on the face of this 
testimony, dead against the unfortunate Hulet. The 
jury, “after a more than ordinary time of consul- 
tation,” return to their places. 

“ William Hulet, alias Holet, hold up your hand. 
Gentlemen, look upon the prisoner at the bar : how 
say you, is he guilty of high treason ? ” 

Foreman: “Guilty.” 

Clerk : “ Look to him, keeper. What goods and 

chattels ? ” * 

Jury : “ None, to our knowledge.” 

It is fair to state that, in spite of the above ver- 
dict, the Court, “ being sensible of the injury done to 
him,” procured Captain William Hulet’s reprieve, al- 
though we hear nothing of his pardon. The prob- 


WAS KING CHARLES HUNG IN CHAINS? 165 


ability is that among his republican friends, and 
while the Cromwellian dynasty lasted, Hulet took 
no pains to clear himself of the charge in question, 
but rather, by affecting a certain coyness, acknowl- 
edged the soft impeachment ; just as one would not 
mind, under a Liberal administration, having the 
“ Letters of Junius ” imputed to one ; while, in the 
event of the establishment of a despotic monarchy, 
such a reputation would be dangerous. 

It is singular enough, in the case of a monarch 
about whom there was so much doubt during his life, 
that, in addition to the above question as to who 
was his executioner, there is no little uncertainty as 
to his burial. The common account is that, im- 
mediately after his decapitation, his body was em- 
balmed, and buried in Windsor Chapel, in the same 
vault with Henry VIII. and Jane Seymour. It is 
said to have been seen again on occasion of the burial 
of one of the children of the Princess Anne, in the 
reign of William III. ; while there is a detailed ac- 
count, with which most of us are familiar, of the 
opening of the royal martyr’s coffin, and the exam- 
ination of its contents, by the Prince Eegent, in the 
year 1814. None of these things, however, are in- 
compatible with a curious version of the interment 
of King Charles’s body, which is here subjoined. 

In the good old times, whose return is still prayed 
for by some honest folk, it was customary, upon the 
restoration of any political party to power, to take 
not only a great revenge upon their fallen enemies if 


166 WAS KING CHARLES HUNG IN CHAINS? 


living, but to commit atrocities upon their bodies, if 
they had been so fortunate as to escape their atten- 
tions by death. Thus, Cromwell’s mother, and Crom- 
well’s daughter Elizabeth (a true royalist at heart, if 
we are to believe in historical paintings), and Ad- 
miral Blake, with many other not unworthy per- 
sons, were disentombed from their quiet graves in 
Westminster Abbey, by command of Charles II., and 
thrown promiscuously into a pit in St. Margaret’s 
Churchyard ; while against the skeletons of the late 
king’s more prominent enemies, still severer meas- 
ures were taken. 

By the Houses of Lords and Commons, it was 
“Resolved, that the carcasses of Oliver Cromwell, 
Henry Ireton, John Bradshaw, and Thomas Pride 
be with all expedition taken up and drawn upon a 
hurdle to Tyburn, and there hanged up ; and after 
that, buried under the said gallows.” Some say this 
was carried into effect. Sir George Wharton, an 
annalist of that time, asserts that these four corpses 
were indeed hung “ at the several angles of the triple 
tree till sunset ; then taken down, beheaded, and 
their loathsome trunks thrown in a deep hole under 
the gallows. Their heads were afterward set upon 
poles on the top of Westminster Hall.” A note in 
Kennett’s History describes how the sergeant of the 
House of Commons went to St. Peter’s, Westminster, 
and demanded the body of Cromwell, for the above 
amiable purpose, and found in a vault in the middle 
aisle of Henry VII. ’s Chapel, at the east end, his 
supposed coffin, “ and upon the breast of the corpse 


WAS KINO CHARLES HUNG IN CHAINS? 167 


(therein) was laid a copper plate, finely gilt, en- 
closed in a thin case of lead, on the one side whereof 
were engraved the arms of England impaled with 
the arms of Oliver.” 

But ivas this the body of Oliver Cromwell, after 
all ? Mr. Barkstead, son of regicide Barkstead, ex- 
ecuted promptly after the Kestoration, deposes to 
the contrary. He asserts that his father, being lieu- 
tenant of the Tower of London, and a great confidant 
of the late Protector, did, among other such confi- 
dants, in the time of the Protector’s sickness, desire 
to know where he would be buried ; to which he an- 
swered : Where he obtained the greatest victory and 
glory, and as nigh the spot as could be guessed, where 
the heat of the action was — namely, in the field at 
Naseby, county Northampton, which accordingly was 
thus performed. “ At midnight, soon after his death, 
being first embalmed in a leaden coffin, the body was 
in a hearse conveyed to the said field, the said Mr. 
Barkstead, by order of his father, attending close to 
the hearse ; and being come to the field, they found, 
about the midst of it, a grave, dug about nine feet 
deep, with the green sod carefully laid on one side* 
and the mould on another, in which the coffin being 
soon put, the grave was instantly filled up, and the 
green sod laid carefully flat upon it, care being taken 
that the surplus mould was clean taken away. Soon 
after, like care was taken that the said field was en- 
tirely ploughed up, and sown three or four years 
successively with com. Several other material cir- 
cumstances the said Mr. Barkstead — who now fre- 


168 WAS KING CHARLES HUNG IN CHAINS? 


quents Richards’ Coffee-house — relates, too long to be 
here inserted.” 

In the “ Harleian Miscellany ” this version is re- 
peated, after which is added the following : 

“ Talking over this account of Barkstead’s with 

the Rev. Mr. Sm of G , whose father had 

long resided in Florence as a merchant, and after- 
ward as minister from King Charles II., and had 
been well acquainted with the fugitives after the Res- 
toration, he assured me he had often heard the same 
account by other hands. Those miscreants always 
boasting that they had wreaked their revenge against 
the father as far as human foresight could carry it 
by beheading him while living, and making his best 
friends the executors of the utmost ignominies upon 
him when dead. He [Cromwell] contrived his own 
burial, as owned by Barkstead, having all the honors 
of a pompous funeral paid to an empty coffin, into 
which afterward was removed the corpse of the mar- 
tyr , that, if any sentence should be pronounced, as 
upon his body, it might effectually fall upon that of 
the king. . . . The secret being only among that 
abandoned few, there was no doubt in the rest of the 
people but the body so exposed was that it was said 
to be ; had not some whose curiosity had brought 
them nearer the tree, observed with horror the re- 
mains of a countenance they little had expected there 
and that, on tying the cord, there was a strong seam 
about the neck, by which the head had been, as was 
supposed, immediately after the decollation, fastened 
again to the body. This being whispered about, and 


WAS KING CHARLES HUNG IN CHAINS? 169 

the numbers that came to the dismal sight hourly in- 
creasing, notice was immediately given of the sus- 
picion to the attending officer, who despatched a 
messenger to court to acquaint them with the rumor, 
and the ill consequences the spreading or examining 
into it further might have. On which the bodies 
were immediately ordered down to be buried again. 
. . . Many circumstances make this account not 

altogether improbable ; as all those enthusiasts, to 
the last moment of their lives, ever gloried in the 
truth of it.” 

Lord Clarendon himself seems to give some coun- 
tenance to the above narration. He describes how 
the body of Charles was exposed, after execution, 
to the public view for many days; how it was 
embalmed, and carried to Windsor, “to be buried 
in a decent manner, so that the whole expense 
should not exceed £500 ; ” but also how, upon his 
servants entering the church, with which they had 
before been well acquainted, “they found it so 
altered and transformed, all inscription and those 
landmarks pulled down by which all men knew 
every particular place in that church, and such a 
dismal mutation over the whole, that they knew not 
where they were ; nor was there one old officer that 
had belonged to it, or knew where our princes had 
used to be interred. At last there was a fellow of 
the town who undertook to tell them where there 
was a vault in which King Henry VIII. and Jane 
Seymour were interred. And as near that place as 
could conveniently be, they caused the grave to be 


170 WAS KING CHARLES HUNG IN CHAINS f 


made. . . . Upon the return of King Charles 

II., above ten years after the murder of his father, 
it was generally expected that the body should be 
removed from that obscure burial, and should be 
solemnly deposited with his royal ancestors in 
Henry VII. ’s Chapel.” Lord Clarendon goes on to 
state that Charles II. fully intended this, and gave 
orders to that effect; but that those who survived 
of the interment party being sent down to Windsor, 
“ they could not satisfy themselves in what place or 
part of the church the royal body was interred.” 
They caused the ground “to be opened at a good 
distance,” but found it not, and on their relating their 
failure to the king, “ the thought of that remove was 
laid aside, and the reason communicated to very 
few, for the better discountenancing further inquiry.” 

Upon this matter, Kennett observes : “ It has been 
made a question and a wonder by some persons why 
a monument was not erected to the late king af- 
ter the Kestoration, when the Commons were well 
inclined to have given a sum of money for that 
grateful purpose. We are afraid the true reason 
was that the royal body could not be found ; those who 
murdered it had disturbed it in the very grave , and 
carried it away, and God alone knows where they 
gave it any second interment ” 

Assuming that Barkstead’s narrative is a correct 
one, it might be easily explained how the body of 
Charles was afterward found at Windsor. His own 
friends had replaced it after the mistake was dis- 
covered. The matter is certainly open to consider- 


WAS KING CHARLES HUNG IN CHAINS? 171 


able doubt, although the idea of the substitution 
might have occurred naturally enough to the Crom- 
wellian party, subsequent to the possibility of their 
putting it into effect, and been used merely to flout 
the dominant party. Whether carried out or not, 
the notion of making Charles’s best friends the 
involuntary ministers of his disgrace, while they 
imagined they were insulting the bones of his chief 
foe, is not without a certain grim humor. Nor is it 
possible for nineteenth century folk not to expe- 
rience some little gratification in the thought that 
individuals, no matter of what politics, who made 
warfare with the dead were foiled. 


CHILD-STEALING. 


One of the worst features of the British criminal 
code of half a century ago was the disproportionate 
character of its punishments. In most cases, it was 
ruthlessly cruel, but in others it awarded penalties 
very much too lenient. For offences against author- 
ity, property, and commerce, it rarely inflicted any- 
thing short of death ; while for crimes which steeped 
whole families in misery, and which are repugnant 
to every natural feeling, but a slight expiation was 
often demanded. In 1795, during the passage of 
his majesty George III.’s state-coach through the 
streets on his way to open Parliament, the popu- 
lace expressed their disapprobation of his policy. 
Among a number of disorderly persons, none of 
whom seems to have behaved worse than his fellows, 
one Kidd Wake was apprehended. He was proved 
to have uttered the treasonable exclamations of “No 
war, no George ! ” He was also accused of malignan- 
cy of aspect ; but this was accounted for, by the wit- 
nesses for the defence, on the ground that he had a 
defect in his sight, which always had the effect of 
producing a distortion of his features whenever he 
attempted to look particularly at any object. Mr. 
Justice Ashurst informs this criminal, when brought 


CHILD-STEALING. 


173 


up to receive judgment, that his crime is “most 
atrocious, and almost unprecedented ; ” that he 
might have been convicted of a much more serious 
offence but for the mercy of the Crown ; and that 
his case, even as it stood, afforded an admirable 
instance “ of the unequalled mildness of the laws of 
this country,” since anywhere else he would certain- 
ly have paid the forfeit of his life. 

“ It now,” he concludes, “ becomes my duty to 
pronounce the sentence of the Court, which is, that 
you be committed to the custody of the keeper of 
the Penitentiary House in and for the county of 
Gloucester, and be kept to hard labor for the space of 
five years ; and within the first three months of 
that time, that you stand in and upon the pillory 
for one hour, between the hours of eleven and two 
o’clock in the afternoon, in some public street in 
Gloucester, on a market-day ; and that you give 
sureties in one thousand pounds * for your good 
behavior for the term of ten years, to be computed 
from the expiration of the said five years ; and that 
you be further imprisoned till you find the said 
sureties.” 

In the same year, one Elizabeth Hall (a female 
fiend only second in atrocity to Mrs. Brownrigg) for 
beating two little girls, apprenticed to her by the 
parish, almost to death, and working them from 
four o’clock in the morning until eleven at night, on 

* The prisoner thus addressed is a laboring man, with a wife 
dependent upon his daily work for support ; so that the sen- 
tence is equivalent to one of imprisonment for life. 


174 


CHILD-STEALING. 


potatoes and salt, is awarded six months’ imprison- 
ment for each offence, and to pay a fine of three shil- 
lings and fourpence ! 

Twenty years later, the law was even still more 
lenient toward the cruel — a fellow-feeling probably 
rendering it wondrous kind in their case — for we 
find one Mrs. Hunter and her servant sentenced, the 
one but to eighteen months, and the other to six 
only, for roasting a child. 

The consideration of infants generally — but es- 
pecially of parish infants — seems, indeed, to have 
been beneath the dignity of the law. Up to the 
year 1811 you might purloin a baby with compar- 
ative impunity, whereas, if you stole a watch above 
the value of nine-and-thirty shillings, you would be 
hanged. At this period, however, a child of respect- 
able parents having been abstracted, the offence of 
child-stealing was made felony, and subject to the 
punishment of transportation. The particular case 
which caused this alteration in the statute-book is 
a very remarkable one. At its outset, it was ex- 
ceedingly obstructed by misidentification of the 
offender. 

The question of personal identity, in the case of 
adults, at least, would seem to be one of compara- 
tive ease, yet, in our criminal annals, there is noth- 
ing more common than a unanimity, among the 
most well-meaning persons, in mistaking the inno- 
cent for the guilty. Two innocent young men were 
placed, in 1785, at the bar of the Old Bailey for rob- 
bing Sir William Davenport (one of the king’s ser- 


CHILD-STEALING. 


175 


geants of the Court of Common Pleas) on the Ux- 
bridge Road. 

“ As far as one man can swear to another,” said 
he, looking full upon the accused, “ the prisoners 
at the bar robbed me, as I have described.” 

Lady Davenport, as in duty bound, corroborated 
her husband’s testimony. Then came the coachman 
and footman, who followed with equal decision upon 
the same side. Upon adjournment to the court- 
yard of the prison, all these persons swore that two 
horses there exhibited (the property of the accused) 
were the same horses ridden by the highwaymen. 
Fortunately for the prisoners, however, one of them 
happened to be a member of a respectable club in 
Kentish Town, the anniversary dinner of which had 
been held in his own house, on the very evening on 
which the robbery was committed. An alibi was 
also clearly established in the case of his companion. 
No particular likeness appears to have existed be- 
tween these innocent men and those who afterward 
confessed to the crime in question. Bartholomew 
Greenwood, Esq., rider to the First Troop of Horse 
Guards, was sworn to, on a previous occasion, with 
equal pertinacity, by a gentleman of the. name of 
Wheatly, as having robbed him in a field near Cam- 
berwell ; and if the accused had been of a less re- 
spectable rank in life, and his witnesses less honor- 
able persons, it would have gone very hard with 
him ; for as nothing is so conclusive as an alibi, so 
nothing is so open to suspicion. Richard Coleman 
was actually executed for the murder of Sarah 


176 


CHILD-STEALING. 


Green through the misidentification of him by the 
dying woman. Being charged with the offence, he 
had absconded, and hid himself, which doubtless 
weighed greatly against him with the jury, although 
he had issued an advertisement from his place of 
concealment, setting forth his innocence, and an- 
nouncing his intention of delivering himself up at 
the next assizes. The memory of this unfortunate 
man was fully cleared of the matter. 

In the child-stealing case which follows, an inno- 
cent lady, the wife of a surgeon in the navy, was 
identified as the kidnapper by several witnesses, on 
more than one examination, and even committed for 
trial at the Old Bailey. At last, however, the law 
laid its uncertain fingers upon the real criminal, one 
Mrs. Magnis, of Gosport. This woman was the 
wife of a sailor — a gunner on board one of his 
Majesty’s ships, but who seems to have possessed 
property very much more considerable than is usu- 
ally owned by that improvident class. He had been 
always earning this money in cruising, and hence it 
happened that of all land affairs he was extraordi- 
narily ignorant, and of a most credulous and simple 
mind. His knowledge of the female character, not- 
withstanding that he was married, appears to have 
been particularly limited. He had a sailor’s confi- 
dence in the sex, and more than a sailor’s ordinary 
fondness for children. To have a “ little darling ” 
of his own, as he called it (in order not to restrict 
the matter to sex) was his most anxious wish, and 
his lady was, of course, aware of this solicitude. I 


CHILD-STEALING . 


irr 

am afraid that Mr. Magnis was not quite so liberal 
of his savings as he might have been during his long 
voyages, when his wife may well have expected 
many little comforts to make up as much as possible 
for her lord’s absence. Perhaps he only waited 
until, according to his peculiar views, she should de- 
serve them, but certainly, upon receiving, while at 
sea, a cheerful intimation from Mrs. M. that there 
was a probability of his often-expressed desire being 
shortly gratified, he sent her home no less a sum 
than <£300, with a particular charge that the infant 
should be “ well rigged out,” and want for nothing ; 
“if a boy,” adds he, with modesty, “so much the 
better.” 

There is surely a pathos about this simple-minded 
sailor, given up to domestic affection, notwithstand- 
ing that the object of it has not yet arrived, and 
showering his gold upon no Danae, but his own re- 
spectable Juno. Mrs. M. was eminently respectable, 
but not devoted to the interests of truth. Notwith- 
standing the tender hopes held forth in her cor- 
respondence, she had in reality no other expectation 
whatever except that of getting money out of her too 
confiding husband. No “ little stranger ” was really 
looked for ; no pincushion was embroidered with the 
sacred “ Welcome ; ” the services of no Mrs. Gamp 
were specially retained. All was moonshine as re- 
spected the coming scion of the House of Magnis. 
In due course, the lady got the money, however, 
although there was nothing to “rig out.” Then 
commenced a still worse course of domestic de- 
12 


178 


CHILD-STEALING. 


ception. Mrs. M. announces, in joyful strain, to her 
infatuated husband, that their firstborn has arrived ; 
that it is a magnificent boy, and that she has named 
him Dick, after his beloved father, whom he greatly 
resembles. From that moment Mr. Richard Magnis 
counts the tedious hours — notches them on a stick, 
perhaps, like Robinson Crusoe, or ties them on his 
handkerchiefs, so many “ knots an hour,” in sailor- 
fashion — until he shall come home and embrace his 
child. 

In process of time, to borrow the words of the 
poet, “ the perils, the dangers, the voyages are past, 
and the ship is moored in Portsmouth at last, and 
the happiest of the crew, the happiest of the crew, 
and the happiest of the crew ” is Richard Magnis, 
senior. When he disembarks at Gosport, however, 
his wife meets him with evil news. Dick is not at 
home ; he is out at nurse at a considerable distance, 
change of air having been pronounced essential to 
that surgical operation, performed by the least pro- 
fessional among us for ourselves, called “cutting 
his teeth.” Mr. Magnis would have journeyed any 
distance to behold his offspring, but he is informed 
that an interview would be positively dangerous to 
the infant, whose nerves are but too likely to be up- 
set by seeing his father for the first time. The leave 
that the poor sailor has obtained is but short on this 
occasion, and he returns on board ship with a heart 
sick with hope deferred. The voyage before him is 
a very long one, during the whole of which he con- 
tinues to make the most affectionate inquiries about 


CHILD-STEALING. 


179 


Dick, and to remit money for liis due support ; lie 
would be very unhappy, he says, but for the thought 
of this child : he is buoyed up, as Mr. Thomas Hood 
would have said, by this imaginary infant male. 
Upon again returning to Gosport, at the expiration 
of no less than three years, Mrs. Magnis endeavors 
once more to impose upon his credulity by inform- 
ing him that the infant, although a remarkably fine 
boy, has not yet finished cutting those teeth. This, 
however, is a little too much even for our sailor. He 
protests that he will either go to his son, wherever 
he may be, or that his son shall be brought to him. 
Under the circumstances, Mrs. Magnis deems the 
latter alternative to be the more feasible, and sets 
out, in person, to fetch this hypothetical boy. It 
occurs to her that the metropolis is most calculated 
(by the number and variety it possesses of the goods 
in question) to supply the article of which she 
stands in need. It has often been said that there is 
nothing which cannot be bought in London, and I 
have little doubt that Mrs. M. might have purchased 
an infant male of the proper age, and required 
speaking-likeness to her husband (for that is always 
a matter of opinion), at a very reasonable figure. 
This lady, however, is either unacquainted with the 
locality in which such things are to be procured, or 
she is unwilling to part with the money; at all 
events, she does not go into the infant-market at all, 
but steals a child. 

Passing down St. Martin’s Lane, she set her eyes 
on Master Thomas Dellew (the very article in all 


180 


CIIILD-STEALING. 


respects which she wanted), playing with his little 
sister at “ keeping a shop ” in the gutter, established 
to supply the public with the freshest dirt-pies, and, 
by great good-fortune, immediately opposite a green- 
grocer’s stall. Into this establishment Mrs. Mag- 
nis inveigled the children by promises of apples. 
Having thus gained their confidence, she proposed 
to the little girl to have a race to the nearest 
pastry-cook’s shop, which the young lady won with 
ease ; but upon turning round to look for her ad- 
versary, behold she had distanced her altogether. 
Mrs. Magnis had gone off in another direction with 
the poor little boy ! 

Master Dellew’s disappearance made an immense 
sensation in London. Many mothers would never 
lose sight of their children, even for a moment, in 
consequence ; while a few, on the contrary, en- 
couraged in their offspring a taste for the manufact- 
ure of dirt-pies. The officers of the law were extraor- 
dinarily active in apprehending the wrong persons, 
and the green-grocer and his assistants equally prompt 
in swearing to their identity. At length, however, 
the bereaved parents received intelligence which took 
the father down by the next coach to Gosport, and 
he returned with the missing boy, alive and well. 
The child had fortunately certain marks about him 
which Mrs. Magnis, in her very cursory examination 
of him in St. Martin’s Lane, had not perceived, and 
a handbill having been published of his description, 
inevitably led to his detection ; for Magnis Pere (as 
he thought himself) was for ever triumphantly ex- 


CHILD-STEALING. 


181 


hibiting the child to all his friends, and doubtless 
pointing out its blemishes as particular beauties. He 
had felt the strongest parental affection for the boy 
(who had also been mightily taken with him , and 
seemed rather to enjoy the variety in his domestic 
life than otherwise) ; and when the imposition was 
made clearly manifest, the simple sailor was greatly 
affected at having to part with him. Mrs. Magnis 
herself was committed to Winchester Jail, and there- 
by escaped even the slight punishment at that time 
awarded for her offence ; for being brought to trial 
at the assizes for Hampshire, her counsel protested 
against the illegality of her commitment — the offence 
having been committed in London, and not in Hamp- 
shire — and easily procured her acquittal. 

A case most remarkably similar to the above oc- 
curred in 1815. A poor beggar-woman, with twins 
in her arms, and a child of five years old accompany- 
ing her, was robbed in open day of one of her twins 
by a strange woman, who had offered to carry it 
under pretence of charity. Indigent as was the 
mother, and burdened with five other children, she 
immediately spent all she had in advertisements with 
a description of the thief, which six weeks afterward 
had the desired effect. Sarah Stone, the offender, 
was identified on board a ship in the Thames, with 
the missing child in her arms. 

“ Oh, let me have a kiss of my baby ! ” cried the 
mother, overjoyed at seeing it once more. 

But a sailor who was standing by exclaimed : “ No ; 
not if you were the queen of England ! ” For exactly 


182 


CHILD-STEALING. 


as in the case of Richard Magnis, he firmly believed 
it to be his own little daughter (having been imposed 
upon by his wife in a similar manner), and swore to 
the same, with great tenacity, at the subsequent trial. 
In this case, however, the poor baby was not re- 
turned in such good condition, and died very shortly 
after its restitution. The law with respect to child- 
stealing had, as has been above stated, been rendered 
more rigorous since the case of Harriet Magnis, and 
Sarah Stone was sentenced to seven years’ transpor- 
tation. 


MODERN AMAZONS. 


Ever since the days of Queen Thalestris there 
have been ladies who have aspired to be gentlemen, 
and despised their own position, no matter by what 
complimentary terms — such as “ Better Halves,” 
“The Gentler Portion of Creation,” “Guardian 
Angels,” etc. — their sex has been designated. Joan 
of Arc, we are told, could not restrain herself from 
putting on the male armor that was so ensnaringly 
placed in her dungeon, although she knew that she 
would be burned for it. Her passion for wearing the 
unwhisperables was not to be controlled. 

Metaphorically speaking, and in the sense of wish- 
ing to rule, thus it has ever been and is with all her 
sisterhood, as every married man is well aware ; but 
the actual induement of the garments in question is 
comparatively rare. The ladies who have gone to 
that length are generally, it seems, not only strong- 
minded, but strongly built, with a turn for warfare 
as decided as Joan herself ; and they commonly en- 
list in one of the two military services, of which the 
army is the more popular, in spite of that rapid 
naval promotion of the female sailor with which we 
are all familiar through ballad : 


184 


MODERN AMAZONS. 


“ Which when the captain corned for to hear on’t, 

Very much applauded o’ what she’d done, 

And he made her the first-lieutenant 
Of the gallant Thunder-bomb.” 

With the maiden name of Mrs. Christian Davies 
we have not been able to acquaint ourselves, but she 
was born in Dublin about 1667, the daughter of a 
brewer, at that period in good circumstances, but 
who afterward lost all his property as well as his 
life (in the battle of Aghrim) through adherence to 
James II. 

Of her early years we know little, but it is on 
record that she preferred a country life to residence 
in town, was expert in following the plough and 
using the flail, and greatly given to riding horses 
across country without a side-saddle, or indeed any 
saddle, nor did she sit sideways. In Ireland such 
eccentricities are easily pardoned, and she found 
a suitor in the Rev. Thomas Howel, Fellow of 
Dublin College, her first cousin, by whom, however, 
she was discreditably jilted. She afterward married 
Richard Welsh, a person in humbler circumstances, 
and by him had three children. On a certain day 
her husband, having gone to pay a brewer some 
money, failed to return; and all inquiries being 
without effect, he was given up by his inconsolable 
widow as having been privately murdered. At the 
expiration of a year, however, she received a letter 
from him, relating how he had been inveigled, while 
intoxicated, on board a transport ship, and had 
joined the army in Flanders as a recruit. 


MODERN AMAZONS. 


185 


On the receipt of this intelligence Mrs. Welsh 
placed her children with a nurse, dressed herself in 
a suit of her husband’s clothes, and enlisting under 
the name of Christopher Welsh, herself set sail for 
the scene of war. She found the army at Landen, 
on the eve of a general engagement, in which she 
took part with distinguished courage, and was rec- 
ompensed with a musket-ball in the foot, which in- 
capacitated her from service for two months. After 
that she was taken prisoner by the French, but soon 
exchanged. Her solicitude for the concealment of 
her sex led her to pretend to the character of a 
gay Lothario, and she challenged and dangerously 
wounded a rival suitor for the hand of a burgher’s 
daughter at Gorkum, for which offence she was dis- 
charged from her regiment. Enlisting in Lord John 
Haye’s dragoons, the honors of paternity were 
forced upon her by an untruth-speaking damsel of 
Namur, and she paid for the infant’s maintenance 
without grudging, since, strangely enough, such a 
charge established her reputation. She could hear 
no tidings of her husband throughout the campaign, 
but liked her mode of life so well that, after a short 
residence at home, she again rejoined the same 
regiment, and was present with it in all the princi- 
pal engagements of 1702 and 1703 under the Duke 
of Marlborough. She was shot in the hip at the 
battle of Donauworth in such a manner that the ball 
could never be extracted, and yet, though remaining 
in the hospital at Schellenberg for many weeks, her 
sex was not discovered. 


186 


MODERN AMAZONS. 


On the field of Hochstadt she recognized her 
husband — whom she had not seen for twelve years 
— in a regiment brigaded with her own, and after 
the contest revealed herself to his astonished but 
not altogether delighted eyes. He had been married 
in the interval to a Dutch woman, and gave our 
heroine to understand that he was very well content 
with his present spouse. Mrs. Welsh the first, being 
a person of high spirit, did not stoop to supplication, 
but, on the contrary, promised the faithless Richard 
the sharp edge of her dragoon’s sword if he ever 
ventured to breathe a word of her secret ; and yet, 
singularly enough, the dissevered pair were excellent 
comrades, and as such seem to have enjoyed one an- 
other’s society. 

At the battle of Ramillies, a shell struck this gal- 
lant lady on the head and fractured her skull, upon 
which she was compelled to be trepanned, and while 
under treatment, her sex was at last discovered. She 
was in consequence dismissed from the military 
service, and undertook the duties of the camp- 
kitchen, the officers of her late regiment furnishing 
her with all the requisites of female attire. These 
may be said to have been her second trousseau , for 
her husband being killed in action, she almost im- 
mediately wedded one Hugh Jones, a grenadier, 
who in his turn fell in the attack on St. Tenant, a 
few weeks afterward. On the conclusion of the 
war, Mrs. Jones was presented by the Duke of 
Argyle, her commander, to the queen, from whom 
she received a considerable gratuity. On her return 


MODERN AMAZONS. 


187 


to Ireland she found her mother yet alive — upward 
of a hundred years old — but two of her three chil- 
dren had died. In Dublin she was married for the 
third time to a soldier named Davies, for whom she 
obtained a situation in Chelsea Hospital ; while, in 
addition to the bounty above alluded to, the Govern- 
ment awarded a small pension to her for life. 

The above lady was exceptionally fortunate in her 
career. The assumption of the masculine apparel, 
without being absolutely criminal, yet seldom fails 
to bring its fair wearers into collision with the law ; 
it also subjects them to oppression, as in the fol- 
lowing case, from any unprincipled person who may 
chance to have discovered their secret. In 1731, a 
girl named Mary East was engaged to be married to 
a young man, for whom she entertained the strong- 
est affection ; but upon his taking to evil courses, or, 
to tell the whole truth, being hanged for highway 
robbery, she determined to run no risk of any such 
disappointment from the opposite sex in future. A 
female friend of hers having suffered in some similar 
manner, and being of the like mind with herself, 
they agreed to pass for the rest of their days as man 
and wife, in some $lace where they were not known. 
The question of which should be the husband was 
decided by lot in favor of Mary East, who accord- 
ingly assumed the masculine habit, and under the 
name of James How took a small public-house at 
Epping for himself and consort. Here, and subse- 
quently at other inns, they lived together in good 
repute with their neighbors for eighteen years — dur- 


18S 


MODERN AMAZONS. 


ing which neither experienced the least pang of 
marital jealousy — and realized a considerable sum of 
money. The supposed James How served all the 
parish offices without discovery, and was several 
times a foreman of juries. While occupying the 
White Horse at Poplar, however, his secret was dis- 
covered by a woman who had known him in his 
youth, and from that time the happy couple became 
the victims of her extortion. First five, then ten, 
then one hundred pounds were demanded as the 
price of her. silence, and even these bribes were 
found to be insufficient. At last, however, the per- 
secutor pushed matters too far and killed the goose 
that laid such golden eggs. James brought the 
whole matter before a magistrate, and attired, awk- 
wardly enough, in the proper garments of her sex, 
herself witnessed against the offender, who was im- 
prisoned for a considerable term. Exposure, how- 
ever, of course followed upon the trial, and the 
White Horse had to be disposed of, and the landlord 
and landlady to retire from public life into retire- 
ment. After thirty-four years of pretended matri- 
mony, Mrs. How died; the disconsolate widower 
survived long afterward, but never again took to 
himself another spouse. Neither husband nor wife 
had ever been seen to dress a joint of meat; nor did 
they give entertainments to their friends like other 
couples ; neither, although in excellent circumstances 
(having acquired between three and four thousand 
pounds), did they keep man-servant or maid-servant, 
but Mary East served the customers and went on 


MODERN AMAZONS. 


189 


errands, while her wife attended solely to the affairs 
of the house. 

But perhaps the most singular story connected 
with this misrepresentation of sex is that of Mary 
Anne Talbot, otherwise John Taylor. According to 
her own account, this lady was a natural daughter of 
Earl Talbot, steward of his Majesty’s household, and 
was born in 1778 at the house of Mr. Gosling, the 
banker, in Lincoln’s Inn Fields. After being toler- 
ably educated, she was put under the care of a Mr. 
Shuker in Shropshire, who behaved toward her in a 
very cruel manner ; her father having died, the money 
for her maintenance was paid with regularity to this 
gentleman, who seems to have had no dislike to that 
arrangement, but only to the charge which it entailed 
upon him. Having brought the girl up in an entire 
ignorance of the world, and almost as a prisoner, he 
threw her in the way of a certain Captain Bowen, 
in whose company she quitted her guardian’s house, 
under pretence of being placed at a school in Lon- 
don. So completely did she fall into the power of 
this scoundrel, that when his regiment was ordered 
to the West Indies, he compelled her to accompany 
him on board the transport in the capacity of his 
footboy, under the name of John Taylor, by which 
she was ever afterward known. At St. Domingo, 
orders were received countermanding their destina- 
tion, which was changed to Flanders, and the poor girl 
was forced to become a drummer-boy, under pain 
of being sold as a slave by her gallant proprietor. 
“ This new position was only mitigated,” says she, 


190 


MODERN AMAZONS. 


“ by the fact that I was less immediately compelled 
by it to endure the sight of a man now rendered to 
me detestable.” 

Still, when the captain was slain at the taking of 
Valenciennes, the young woman sought for and dis- 
covered his body, and shed a tear or two over his 
miserable fate. Her next step was desertion from 
the army. Compelled by destitution, she engaged 
as cabin-boy on board of a French lugger, which was 
presently captured by the English fleet. Being car- 
ried before Lord Howe, on board the Queen Charlotte, 
John Taylor was in great danger of being hanged as 
a sailor acting against his country, but his woman’s 
wit made out so good a story that he obtained pardon 
without the necessity of playing that last card, to be 
kept for great emergencies — namely, the discovery of 
his sex. Stationed as powder-monkey on board the 
Brunswick, he shared in the great action of the 1st 
of June, during which that famous ship engaged 
three seventy-fours at once, and that so closely, that 
she was unable to haul up her lower port-lids, but 
obliged to fire through them. Our heroine, who de- 
scribes herself as by no means intimidated under 
these trying circumstances, received a shot in the 
left ankle, which gave her excruciating pain, and 
more or less crippled her for life. After four 
months of Haslar Hospital, however, she obtained 
a partial cure, and joining the Vesuvius bomb, be- 
longing to the squadron under Sir Sidney Smith, 
was taken prisoner with the rest of the crew by a 
privateer near Dunkirk, and lodged in a French 


MODERN AMAZONS. 


191 


jail until exchanged. Having experienced enough 
of warfare, Miss Talbot now engaged himself as 
steward on board the Ariel, Captain Field, bound 
for New York. His commander entertained so high 
a regard for him that he took him to his own home 
in Providence State, where a singular misfortune be- 
fell him. Miss Field, a niece of the Captain’s, be- 
came passionately enamored of his favorite ; offered 
to marry him, although it was not leap-year ; and 
when he departed to join the ship, “ went into con- 
vulsions,” so that he had to be recalled to bring her 
to herself again. At last, he was only permitted to 
depart under the solemn promise to come back after 
a single voyage and make her Mrs. Taylor, and that 
he never did so was doubtless reckoned among the 
crimes of faithless man. 

But the hour was fast arriving when John Taylor 
was once more to be known as Mary Anne Talbot. 
Having left his ship in the Thames, and gone into 
Wapping “on a spree ” (we use the lady’s very 
words), he and his friends were seized by the press- 
gang, and after a desperate resistance (in which he 
got his head cut open) were carried on board what 
was called by a frightful misnomer “the tender.” 
He had about him his protection as an American, 
but the mate of the Ariel, his rival in the affections 
of Miss Field, divulged the fact that he was an 
Englishman. In this emergency, our wounded 
hero was compelled to demand his release upon the 
delicate ground of being a female ; when the chagrin 
of the lieutenant who had captured her was only 


192 


MODERN AMAZONS. 


equalled by the astonishment of Mr. John Jones, 
the malignant mate. Miss Talbot then sent for 
Captain Field, and made the same confession, and 
resisting his invitation to continue in the sea- 
service, although pressed with great earnestness, 
purchased certain feminine garments, which caused 
her excessive inconvenience, and began housekeeping 
in East Smithfield. 

From this time her biography is a record of her 
attacks upon the Admiralty for pay and prize-money, 
and upon the Crown for a pension. At the navy pay- 
office in Somerset House, the people being of the 
ordinary rude and supercilious type, Miss Mary 
Anne Talbot made use of language that seems to 
have given great offence, and which caused her to be 
brought (in sailor’s costume) before the sitting mag- 
istrate in Bow Street. This incident, which prom- 
ised at one time rather unpleasantly, only terminated 
in a public subscription for her benefit. A number 
of good people “ took her up ” in consequence of the 
police having done so, and for a little while she was 
in tolerable circumstances. Many of her benefac- 
tors, however, being conventional in their moral- 
ity, objected to her “ smoking or drinking grog more 
than what became a female,” and in particular, to 
her reassuming her late nautical garb, and seeking 
the company of some messmates she had known on 
board the Brunswick, and entertaining them at The 
Coach and Horses, opposite Somerset House, with 
the money she had received in charity. The grape- 
shot in our heroine’s ankle, too, began to trouble her, 


MODERN AMAZONS. 


193 


“ the reason of which,” she naively confesses, “ I 
imagine, proceeded from the wound breaking out 
afresh in consequence of my too free use of spiritu- 
ous liquors.” Diseased and poverty-stricken, her 
case became truly pitiable, until another misunder- 
standing with the law once more introduced her to 
public notice. She was informed against, and car- 
ried before the commissioners of the stamp-office for 
wearing powder in her hair without a license. “ It 
is true,” confesses she, “ that I have worn a little 
powder in my hair whenever I have had occasion to 
call at the house of noble persons to whom I have 
made known my case; but I have much more 
frequently made use of it in defence of my king and 
country.” The commissioners, of course, immedi- 
ately made a handsome collection for her, and the 
public, as before, made haste to indorse their gener- 
osity. 

One of the more legitimate uses to which Miss 
Mary Anne Talbot put the money thus received, was 
to go down to her old enemy, Mr. Shuker in Shrop- 
shire, and frighten him to death. She drew a sword 
upon him at least, according to her own confession, 
“ and in less than three days he was found dead in 
his bed, without any previous appearance of illness.” 
A little while after this achievement, she was pre- 
sented to the Queen, and received from her royal 
hand some temporary pecuniary assistance. Still, 
her finances were not in a satisfactory state, and she 
was obliged to join a theatrical company in the 
Tottenham Court Eoad, where her salary for play- 
13 


194 


MODERN AMAZONS. 


ing Lady Helen in the “ Children in the Wood,” 
and Jack Hawser in “Banyan Bay,” was exceed- 
ingly limited. She was like a child in the wood 
herself, poor thing ! and it was generally banyan- 
day with her. She was even locked up in a spong- 
ing-house in Carey Street, and afterward removed to 
Newgate, for a debt of eleven pounds. “ Stone walls 
do not a prison make,” however, to one like our 
heroine ; she merely remarks upon the circumstance : 
“ A new scene in life now opened to my view, and 
finding many of my fellow-prisoners of a congenial 
temper with my own, I frequently joined in parties 
of conviviality hardly to be credited in this place. 
These pleasures, however, were confined to a certain 
time, as my station in the woman’s ward compelled 
a separation by ten o’clock, at which hour the wards 
are separately locked.” The Society for Relief of 
Persons confined for Small Debts at last obtained 
Mary Anne Talbot’s discharge, and a pension from 
the royal bounty placed her for the remainder of 
her days above the reach at least of destitution. 

The above are among the most interesting of 
Modern Amazons on record; but they are culled 
from quite a host. The reverse transformation — 
the putting on of petticoats by a male — is, on the 
other hand, a very rare event. The talents of the 
fair are more versatile than those of the sex which 
calls itself superior ; and ignominious discovery gen- 
erally awaits the man who would play the woman. 
The most famous case of deception of this nature is 
that of the Chevalier D’Eon. This individual was 


MODERN AMAZONS. 


195 


bom of a good family at Tonnerre, in Burgundy, in 
1727 ; was well educated, and distinguished himself 
both as a barrister and an author at an early age. 
At eight-and-twenty he entered the diplomatic ser- 
vice of Louis XV.; was secretary of legation to St. 
Petersburg, and so pleased the Empress Elizabeth 
that on his withdrawal from that city she presented 
him with a very handsome amount of roubles and 
her own miniature. He afterward entered the 
military service as captain of dragoons and aide-de- 
camp to Marshal de Broglie. In 1761 D’Eon was 
secretary of legation to the French ambassador in 
London, and upon his chief’s departure was actually 
appointed plenipotentiary in his room, and filled 
that important office for eight months. He was also 
made chevalier of the order of St. Louis, and en- 
joyed the confidence of his sovereign to such a de- 
gree that he never lost it throughout his subsequent 
escapades. When superseded by the Count de 
Guerchy, however, he took that indignity with such 
a bad grace* that he threw off his allegiance and 
published a pamphlet exposing the designs of the 
French court, and issued such calumnious state- 
ments respecting his successor, that judgment was 
given against him for libel ; and not surrendering 
himself in the Court of King’s Bench, he was de- 
clared an outlaw in 1765. 

Notwithstanding this — and herein consists the 
real mystery of D’Eon’s case — we find Louis XV. 
increasing his pension, in the ensuing year, from 
five thousand to twelve thousand livres. The cheva- 


196 


MODERN AMAZONS. 


lier was soon at large again in this country, and em- 
broiled in political scandal; but about 1768 he dis- 
appeared for a long interval from public life ; and 
when he entered it again, it was in the character of 
a female. The question of the real sex of an indi- 
vidual so notorious became of course a topic of uni- 
versal interest, and produced wagers to an immense 
amount. One of these was tried before Lord Mans- 
field in 1777, in the form of an action brought by a 
Mr. Hayes against Mr. Jaques, a broker and under- 
writer, for the recovery of seven hundred pounds ; 
“the said Jaques having, about six years before, 
received premiums of fifteen per cent., for each of 
which he stood engaged to return one hundred 
pounds, whenever it should be proved that the 
Chevalier D’Eon was a woman.” Large sums on 
policies depended on this suit, which was decided in 
favor of the plaintiff, two witnesses, one of whom 
was a surgeon, having established the fact in ques- 
tion beyond all doubt. These men, however, were 
gross perjurers, and in all probability confederates 
of the masquerading chevalier, although he had de- 
clared most solemnly, on his last departure from 
England, that he had no interest in the policies re- 
lating to his sex. He caused it to be reported that 
his masculine education had arisen from a caprice 
of his father, who had been ardently desirous of 
male offspring, and being disappointed in the sex, 
had exclaimed : “ No matter for that ; I will bring 
her up as a boy” — a resolve which he put into exe- 
cution. The chevalier now appeared for the first 


MODERN AMAZONS. 


197 


time in female apparel in Paris, at the age of forty- 
nine. Her manners appear to have been the reverse 
of prudish. “ I shall be always respectable,” said 
she ; “ but I frankly own that I don’t think I shall 
ever be modest.” Having always been very atten- 
tive to the fair sex, she could not refrain from still 
doing them little services, such as filling their 
glasses and handing them chairs. She found it diffi- 
cult, she complained, to make rouge stick to her 
face, and having formerly encouraged a beard, con- 
sumed much of her time in eradicating the same 
with tweezers. 

Very curious is it that all this time there were 
many persons living who could have put an end to 
this trickery, had they been so minded ; but the 
fear of court influence perhaps restrained them. On 
two of the chevalier’s old school-fellows calling on 
him to remonstrate upon his disguise, he answered : 
“ What would you have me do ? they have ordered 
me to be a woman, and I wear petticoats by com- 
mand of the King.” Certainly, on his attempting 
to enter the naval service, in his masculine char- 
acter, he was apprehended by royal mandate, and 
imprisoned. After his release, he returned to Eng- 
land and gave exhibitions in fencing, in which he 
was a marvellous proficient. He fenced with the 
Chevalier St. George before the Prince Regent at 
Carlton House, and although in female apparel, held 
his own. At the Revolution he lost his pension, and 
petitioned the National Assembly in the strangest 
terms. “ Although,” said he, “ I have worn the at- 


198 


MODERN AMAZONS. 


tire of a woman for fourteen years, I have not for- 
gotten that I have been a soldier. I demand, in- 
stead of my cap and petticoats, a helmet, a sabre, a 
horse, and that rank in the army to which my sen- 
iority, my services, my wounds entitle me.” The 
petition was “interrupted by repeated bursts of 
applause,” but produced no pecuniary benefit. In 
May, 1811, the chevalier expired in Milman Street, 
near the Foundling Hospital, after having been in- 
debted to private benevolence for his support for 
several years. His body was examined and dis- 
sected in the presence of Lord Yarmouth, Sir Syd- 
ney Smith, the Hon. Mr. Lyttleton, and other per- 
sons of distinction, when, of course, all doubt con- 
cerning his sex was set at rest. 


EVIDENCE. 


Fkom the most direct to the most circumstantial, 
there are almost as many gradations of evidence as 
there are of crime ; nor is the latter kind less valu- 
able than the former (as it would certainly appear to 
be at first sight), since what it lacks in the way of 
identification is compensated for in its freedom from 
personal spite. There can at least be no malice in 
a chain of undesigned coincidences ; whereas, noth- 
ing is easier than the swearing away a man’s life 
falsely. Moreover, it is not to be expected, in very 
serious cases, that direct evidence should be forth- 
coming. Murder, especially, demands Solitude and 
Night as sentinels of its dreadful work. Its appear- 
ance without those attendants, red-handed and de- 
fiant, is rare ; although there are a few examples of 
it on record. 

Bobert Irvine, who murdered his two pupils at 
Edinburgh in 1717, perpetrated the deed in broad- 
daylight and in the open fields, and was distinctly 
seen by persons walking on the Castle Hill, within 
half a mile of the spot. A few years before, Alex- 
ander Balfour shot his rival, a pedagogue, sitting in 
the schoolroom among his pupils. Nor in this case 
did the murderer meet with his desert, for after con- 


200 


EVIDENCE. 


demnation lie escaped in his sister’s clotlies from 
prison. 

The most extraordinary instance of openness, 
however, in this worst of crimes occurred in 1712. 
One William Johnson, who had been a butcher, a 
com-chandler, a publican, and mate to a surgeon at 
Gibraltar, and eventually had given up all these pro- 
fessions for that of a highwayman, was greatly at- 
tached to one Jane Hunsden, who turned her less 
diversified talents toward coining only. Being put 
upon her trial at the Old Bailey, a second time, for 
this offence, Johnson wished to address her in the 
dock ; and on Mr. Spurling, the head turnkey, in- 
forming him that no such thing could be permitted 
until “ that little matter,” the trial, was concluded, 
he instantly drew a pistol, and, much encouraged 
thereto by the object of his affections, shot Spurling 
dead in court. The judges, deeming it unnecessary 
to proceed with the case of coining, ordered both 
offenders to be tried at once for the murder ; and 
there being no want of witnesses to the deed, they 
were immediately convicted, and received sentence 
of death. It is remarkable that they both pleaded 
“Not guilty,” and resolutely averred their innocence 
upon the scaffold. 

Certainly as the identity of the above-mentioned 
criminals was established, not less surely has guilt 
been brought home to others by the most indirect 
and apparently inconsequential means. When Mr. 
Blight was shot at Deptford, in 1806, there was no 
suspicion of the real assassin until Sir Astley Cooper 


EVIDENCE. 


201 


came down from London — not as a detective, but as 
a surgeon — and at once, as it were, laid his finger on 
the murderer, whom he had never set eyes on in 
his life. From an examination of the wound he in- 
ferred positively that the fatal weapon must have been 
fired by a left-lianded man. Now, the only left- 
handed person near the premises when the crime 
was committed was a particular friend of the de- 
ceased, and the last man to have been implicated in 
the matter but for this revelation of science. He 
was in consequence arrested, tried, and convicted, 
and, before execution, made a full confession of the 
whole matter. There have been many examples of 
the complete efficacy of evidence of this sort ; but of 
late years, since medical jurisprudence has been 
taken up by experts as a profession, such testimony 
has been received with caution. Yet fatal mistakes 
are doubtless much less common than they used to 
be, and the indecent haste with which the links of 
circumstance used to be woven into a chain sufficient 
to hang a man, is not to be found in modem judicial 
proceedings. “ Presumptive proof,” observes the 
most agreeable of essay-writers, “is a very pre- 
sumptuous personage. People circumstantially 
found guilty ought at the worst to undergo only a 
circumstantial hanging. A gallows should be 
paraded round them, the executioner should make a 
circuitous pretence of turning them off, and the by- 
standers should exclaim : ‘ There you are, not in- 
deed, positively hanged, but circumstantially. You 
may presume that you are dead ; the proof of your 


202 


EVIDENCE. 


being so is not direct, but strong symptoms of an 
execution are round about you. You may say that 
you have been in very hanging circumstances.’ ” 

The above remarks are comments upon the case 
of William Shaw, who suffered at Edinburgh in 1721 
for the murder of his daughter Catherine. She had 
been passionately attached to a young man of dis- 
sipated habits, while her father was desirous that 
she should marry a steady husband of his own 
choosing. On one occasion the quarrel between 
them was very violent, and the words barbarity , 
cruelty , and death , pronounced by the girl, were 
distinctly overheard by a watchmaker living in the 
same stair, and whose apartment was divided from 
that of the Shaws by a single partition only. Eor 
some time after Shaw left the room the watchmaker 
heard no more of these exclamations ; but presently 
there were several groans, and, being alarmed, he 
called his neighbors, who, also listening atten- 
tively, heard Catherine two or three times faintly 
exclaim, “ Cruel father ! thou art the cause of my 
death ! ” Upon breaking into the room, they found 
her stabbed and speechless, with the fatal knife by 
her side ; and upon questioning her as to whether 
she owed her death to her father, she was just able 
to make an affirmative motion with her head, im- 
mediately after which she expired. Upon this evi- 
dence William Shaw was hanged. But in the 
August of the ensuing year a man w r ho had suc- 
ceeded to the tenancy of Shaw’s apartments found, 
in the chamber in which Catherine had died, in a 


EVIDENCE . 


203 


cavity on one side of the chimney, a paper folded 
like a letter, which contained, in her own handwrit- 
ing, the avowal of her deliberate intention to com- 
mit suicide, in consequence of her father’s cruelty. 
“My death,” it concluded, “ I lay to your charge. 
When you read this, consider yourself as the inhu- 
man wretch that plunged the knife into the bosom 
of the unhappy Catherine Shaw.” The magistracy 
of the town being convinced hereby of the innocence 
of her father, caused his body to be taken from the 
gibbet in Leith Walk, where it hung in chains, and 
given to his family for interment, while, as a rep- 
aration to his memory, they directed a pair of 
colors to be waved over his grave. 

An uncle and niece also once fell out upon that 
unfailing topic of disagreement between old and 
young — the choice of a lover. 

“ Young hearts are always finding out 

That ancient matrons have no feeling ; 

While as for fathers — how should gout 
Find any happiness in kneeling ? ” 

These relatives were walking in the fields together ; 
a person at a little distance heard the girl say, “Do 
not kill me, uncle ! do not kill me ! ” and afterward 
the discharge of a pistol, which was, in reality, that 
of a fowling-piece in an adjacent field. The same 
night she eloped, and left England for a year, when, 
upon her return, she found that her unfortunate rel- 
ative had been hanged for her supposed murder. 

But the most extraordinary case of the failure of 


204 


EVIDENCE. 


evidence on record is, perhaps, that of Jonathan 
Bradford. This man kept an inn on the London 
and Oxford Koad, and bore an excellent character up 
to the date of the commission of the offence for 
which he suffered. In 1736 one Mr. Hayes put up 
at his house, and, in conversation with two gentle- 
men with whom he supped, disclosed the fact that 
he was travelling with a large amount of money. 
These gentlemen, who slept in a double-bedded 
room, were awakened by groans proceeding from 
the next chamber, and entering that apartment, 
were horrified to find their companion of a few 
hours before lying stabbed upon his bed, with the 
landlord standing by, with a dark lantern in one 
hand and a bloody knife in the other. 

Such evidence, which could scarcely be termed 
circumstantial, was, of course, held to be conclusive, 
although the accused averred that he had entered the 
apartment urged by the same humane motives as the 
witnesses, and, terror-stricken by what he saw, had 
dropped the knife upon the bed-clothes. Jonathan 
Bradford was hanged, protesting his innocence, 
whereas the real perpetrator of the deed was the 
murdered man’s own footman, who had decamped 
with his booty only a few seconds before the land- 
lord made his appearance. This miscarriage of 
justice is not, however, to be deplored like the 
others, insomuch as Bradford confessed to the pris- 
on chaplain that he had entertained the same hor- 
rible intention as the assassin himself, and upon 
entering the bedroom was amazed to find that the 


EVIDENCE. 


205 


murder which he contemplated had already been 
committed by another. 

The sort of evidence, however, which is the 
greatest, obstacle to the discovery of crime is misi- 
dentification. Examples of this have been already 
given in the chapter headed “ Child-stealing ; ” but 
they might have been greatly multiplied. An over- 
eagerness for bearing witness is but too common 
among a very large class of persons, and, we regret 
to add, especially among females. Having once 
made a mistake, the gentler sex seem to consider 
that their reputation demands their “ sticking to it,” 
without sufficient consideration for the victim of 
tlieir virtuous consistency. Sometimes it is the 
thief whose lineaments they unmistakably recognize, 
and sometimes it is the property stolen which has 
stamped itself indelibly upon their memory ; but in 
either case nothing can exceed the positiveness of 
their statements, until their cross-examination be- 
gins by the prisoner’s counsel, which, in the good 
old times of which we write, was not permitted to 
worry honest witnesses for the prosecution. 

In the month of April, 1726, a very curious sight 
“might have been seen,” as the novelists say, by 
any wayfarers who happened to pass through St. Mar- 
garet’s churchyard, Westminster — namely, the expo- 
sition of a human head upon a pole. Human heads 
on poles were more common in those days than 
these, notwithstanding that our own are called 
“ sensational ; ” but still this particular one did at- 
tract considerable attention, for it was not the head 


206 


EVIDENCE. 


of a traitor. Nobody knew whose head fit was, 
indeed, and the Government had set it up, washed 
and combed, where it stood, for the purpose of its 
identification. It had been found in a dry-dock 
near the Horseferry, Westminster; but there was 
no clue to those who had placed it there, although 
what detective force existed at that time was dili- 
gently engaged in the matter. Officers also were 
stationed among the crowd in the churchyard, to 
take into custody any person who should discover 
signs of horror unwarranted by the exhibition, and 
so disclose their guilt. At the present time it is 
probable that half London would thereupon have 
been taken up on suspicion of murder ; but our 
great-grandfathers and their spouses were not so 
easily shocked. 

However, even nowadays crimes are sometimes 
committed on unknown persons, and the public 
being invited to view a body, it is generally identi- 
fied pretty positively as being that of five or six 
different people ; nor need this be set down (as it 
has been) as proof of the frequency of the disap- 
pearance of our fellow-creatures from their homes 
and families, and of the prevalence of undiscovered 
crime, but rather to the great delight in identifica- 
tion taken by many persons. So in the case of the 
unknown head there were many who recognized it 
very much to their own satisfaction, and gave the 
most detailed information, and misled the police of 
the period to the very best of their ability. After 
this singular exhibition had lasted four days, it be- 


EVIDENCE. 


207 


came necessary, for the preservation of the features, 
that the head should be placed in spirits, which was 
accordingly done, and the public were still invited 
to witness it at the establishment of a certain sur- 
geon. Among others came a poor woman from 
Kingsland, and after a minute survey she pronoimced 
it to be the head of her husband, who had been miss- 
ing from the very time it had been found. His 
other relatives were even hastier in their conclu- 
sions — 

“ Regardless of grammar, they all cried, ‘ That's him ! ’ ” 

But, after all, it was not “ him,” for the Kingsland 
truant was alive and well, with his head on his 
shoulders, and had only been detained from home 
by a press-gang, or other emergency of that attract- 
ive time. These repeated mistakes obstructed the 
course of justice excessively, although, at last, the 
genuine identification did take place, and the real 
criminals were taken into custody, among whom, 
and the chief of them, was the wife of the unhappy 
victim. It is unnecessary to narrate the circum- 
stances of the murder, which were dreadful enough 
to establish the reputation of any sensational period- 
ical ; but the measures which were taken with the 
supposed murderess were curious and noteworthy. 
Following, probably, the ancient usage of “ ordeal 
by touch,” the peace-officers carried the woman to 
the place where the head was exposed, to see what 
effect it would have upon her. She recognized it 
immediately, exclaiming, "“Oh, it is my dear hus- 


208 


EVIDENCE. 


band’s head ! it is my dear husband’s head ! ” (she 
having helped to cut it off with her own hands). 
“ She took the glass that contained it in her arms, 
and shed many tears as she embraced it,” like Boc- 
caccio’s Isabella over her pot of basil. But when 
they took the head out of its resting-place, to give 
her a lock of hair, as she had desired, her resolution 
gave way, and she fell into a fit. Petit treason — the 
murder of a husband by his wife — was at that time, 
and up to the thirtieth year of good King George 
m., punished by strangulation and burning ; and 
although Queen Mary, from strong sentiments of 
religion, burned her bishops without any previous 
suspension, it was usual, in mercy, not to roast per- 
sons, and especially females, until they had hung a 
considerable time. Accidents, however, used to 
happen at the best regulated executions, and the 
wretched woman in question, being insufficiently 
strangled, was burned alive at Tyburn, while her 
more fortunate male accomplices were hung in chains. 

In civil cases, weight is certainly sometimes given 
to evidence which would be disallowed in criminal 
procedures, as in the curious case of Fish vs. Palmer, 
tried in the Court of Exchequer in 1806. The wife 
of the plaintiff, Fish, who had been possessed of 
property in her own right, died nearly ten yearfe be- 
fore these legal proceedings were instituted, after 
having given birth to a child which was supposed to 
have been born dead. Inconsequence of the plain- 
tiff not having had a living child (as was assumed) by 
his marriage, the estate of the wife was claimed by 


EVIDENCE. 


209 


Palmer, her heir-at-law, and surrendered by the wid- 
ower without opposition. From information de- 
rived, after a great lapse of time, from some women 
who had been present at his wife’s accouchement, 
Fish began to think that the estate was in fact his own, 
and he brought his action accordingly. It lay with 
him, of course, to prove that the child had been 
bom alive. The accoucher who had attended Mrs. 
Fish had died in the meanwhile, but it was proved 
that he had affirmed the child to be alive an 
hour before it was born, that he had directed a warm 
bath to be prepared, and had given the child, when it 
was born, to the nurse, to be placed in the said bath. 
The child neither cried nor moved , but the women 
swore that, when it was immersed, there appeared 
twice a twitching and tremulous motion of the lips. 
Upon their informing the accoucher of this, he bade 
them blow into its throat, which they did, but with- 
out any beneficial effect. The question was, there- 
fore : was this tremulous motion of the lips sufficient 
evidence of the child having been bom alive ? The 
doctors, as usual, differed ; but the jury, under 
direction, gave it as their opinion that the plaintiff 
had established his case ; and in consequence, he 
recovered an estate of which he had been deprived 
no less than ten years ! 

If this case had been one of infanticide, the verdict 
would doubtless have gone the other way, on the 
ground of insufficient proof. 

Of all descriptions of evidence, however, it is 
needless to say that the worst is intentional false- 
14 


210 


EVIDENCE. 


witness ; though it is perhaps hardly so dangerous 
as misidentification, since the honesty of those who 
fall into this error intensifies the effect of their 
testimony, while that of a perjured person is often 
weakened by his having been the subject of suspi - 
cion. In a few cases testimony has been so positive, 
and yet so contradictory, that judges have declined 
to direct, and juries to come to a decision. There 
is no example of evidence of this conflicting kind 
more striking than in the case of Edward McElroy, 
laborer, a lad of twenty years of age, accused, in 
1825, of setting fire to a cart-house belonging to his 
master, David Woods, near Carrickmacross, in the 
county of Monaghan. His employer deposed that, 
being awake at twelve o’clock at night, he heard a 
noise out of doors, and on getting up, discovered 
his cart-house on fire, and distinctly perceived the 
prisoner urging the flames toward the dwelling- 
house. Thomas Woods, son to the prosecutor, 
stated that on hearing his father call out that the 
cart-house was on fire, he ran out naked, and saw 
the figure of a man at a distance running from the 
flames. 

In defence, Charlotte Woods, eighteen, the 
daughter of the prosecutor, averred that on the 
evening in question, all the family, except herself and 
a servant-girl called Ellen, went to bed between 
nine and ten o’clock. These two slept in a small 
bedroom on the ground-floor, off the kitchen ; and 
the girl having some wearing apparel of her own 
to mend, she sat up with her, assisting her in the 


EVIDENCE. 


211 


same — unknown to the rest of the household — until 
half-past eleven o’clock, when, hearing her father 
rise, they extinguished their candle, and began to 
undress : she was afraid of their sitting up being 
known, since he had expressly prohibited any of 
the family doing so. These two had just knelt 
down to their prayers, when she heard a stool fall, 
and turning her face toward a small window which 
looked into the kitchen, she observed her father 
take a lighted turf from the fireplace, and go out. 
The girl and herself then quietly followed him to the 
door, and actually saw him set fire to the cart-house 
with his own hand, having previously set at liberty 
the calf and pig. She then heard him go upstairs 
and close his door, and, after about a quarter of an 
hour, reopen it, and give the alarm of fire. In 
addition, she narrated a conversation she had over- 
heard between her two elder brothers a night or two 
previous to the burning. One of them, speaking of 
the proposed crime, said: “It was a good plan to 
put McElroy out of the way.” To which the other 
replied: “Yes; but I doubt my father 'will go too 
far ; he must perjure himself.” She also said that 
her father had previously accused her of encourag- 
ing the attentions of McElroy, although his suspi- 
cions were quite groundless. Being cross-examined 
on this point, she declared she had no particular 
regard for the prisoner, but had come forward 
actuated solely in the interests of truth, and from 
a desire to save an innocent life. She admitted, 
however, that she was now living under the protec- 


212 


EVIDENCE. 


tion of the prisoner’s relatives, having left her father’s 
house a fortnight previously, at which time she and 
the servant, who accompanied her, had given in- 
formation of the foregoing facts before a magistrate. 

The servant-girl, Ellen, corroborated this state- 
ment of Miss Woods in every particular. 

A certain tailor also swore to the prisoner’s hav- 
ing come to his house on the day preceding the occur- 
rence, and remained therein from sunset to sunrise. 

On the other hand, George Woods, one of the 
brothers in question, denied that any such conver- 
sation as had been detailed had passed between 
himself and Thomas Woods, and swore most posi- 
tively that a close intimacy did exist between his 
sister and the prisoner at the bar. His brother 
Thomas was equally positive in corroboration of this. 

Lastly, a girl named Collins, also in the service of 
the prosecutor, stated that she was in the kitchen, 
on the night in question, with Miss Woods and 
Ellen ; that they went to bed in half an hour after 
the rest of the family, and did not mend any 
clothes ; that she and they were all undressed, and 
at their prayers, when her master gave the alarm of 
fire ; and that all they had stated of his conduct was 
untrue from beginning to end. 

There must certainly have been a great deal of 
false swearing somewhere. 

The jury remained closeted during that night, and 
until the afternoon of the next day, when, not having 
agreed on any verdict, they were conveyed to the verge 
of the county, and there discharged in the usual way. 


MISSING. 


There is something in human affairs even more 
terrible than death itself — namely, disappearance ; 
the sudden snatching away of a man from amid his 
fellow-creatures, who either know not what to think 
of the matter, or who have a score of elucidations to 
offer, not one of which is in the least degree satis- 
factory. Compared with death, indeed, such things 
are uncommon, yet, probably, there are few of my 
elder readers within whose personal knowledge some- 
thing of this nature has not occurred. At all events, 
we have all read of such things, and been affected by 
them more than by any other species of narration, 
with the exception, perhaps, of ghost-stories, which 
are scarcely more mysterious, and are open to ob- 
jections on the score of credibility. 

How strangely that episode strikes us, in the “Life 
of Grimaldi,” where his brother, after the lapse of 
many years, comes to the stage-door of the theatre 
to see him, and after a promise of meeting him that 
night at supper, disappears henceforth and forever. 
I remember little of the book besides that incident, 
which stands out with strange distinctness among the 
clown’s reverses and successes, and the poor tinsel of 
theatrical life. 


214 


MISSING. 


Even about inanimate objects that have been 
suddenly removed from human ken, there hangs some 
interest, as, for instance, about the great seal of 
England, filched from Lord Thurlow’s house in 
Ormond Street, and cast into nobody knows what 
melting-pot — made “gold-soup” of for nobody knows 
whose benefit ! I don’t feel nearly so interested 
about that chancellor’s seal which foolish James II. 
cast into the Thames, in the malicious hope of in- 
terrupting public business, because that was fished 
up and found. 

What a terrible thing, again, is a lost ship ; how 
much worse than any ship ivreck, which tells its own 
tale in spars, and fragments, and drowned men cast 
on shore ! A ship that leaves its port, and is per- 
haps “ spoken with ” once or twice, and then is no 
more seen or heard of ; one, that not only never 
reaches its haven, but meets with we know not what 
fate. We cannot even say of her as of that great ship, 
which, lying on a calm day in front of a populous 
town, suddenly keeled over and went to the bottom : 
“Down went the Royal George, with all her crew 
complete.” She may have been blown up, for all 
that we know. She may have been borne north- 
ward, by some hitherto unknown current, and im- 
prisoned in adamantine icebergs, and all her crew 
have petrified. She may have been carried to the 
tropics, and been becalmed for months, and rotted, 
men and timbers ; or in some island in those “ dark 
purple sjDheres of sea,” her people and their progeny 
may still exist, cut off forever from old associations, 


MISSING. 


215 


familiar faces, and home, with her planks laid in the 
coral caves, never more to bear human freight. What 
a shudder still comes over us when we remember the 
President! What a weird and awful mystery lies 
still about those explorers of the North, although we 
know that they be dead, and may see at any time in 
Greenwich Hospital their last tokens. There is 
scarce a ghastlier sight, to my thinking, than that 
little heap of tarnished silver forks, abandoned in 
those far-away icy solitudes. What despair must 
have been in the hearts of those who left them there, 
and pushed on, God alone knows whither ! 

Of all the evil things that were permitted in the 
Bad Old Times, it seems to me the press-gang must 
have been the worst. Conceive the misery that it 
must needs have caused in humble homes : the bread- 
winner suddenly carried off, and the wife and chil- 
dren not only made destitute, but harrowed with 
the thought that he was dead. There was no alacrity 
in consolation among the officers of his majesty’s 
tenders ; the kidnapped wretch might be able to com- 
municate his position, or he might not. A state of 
things less endurable than even the recruiting in 
Poland, in as far as the horror of what may be ex- 
ceeds the pang of the misfortune that is. 

The imagination magnifies the unknown evil. I 
well remember the state into which the public school 
where I was educated was thrown one fine morning, 
by the intelligence that Bilkins major had been sent 
away in the night — had been carried off home, or 
elsewhere, and was never more to return to pursue 


216 


MISSING . 


his classical studies. The previous day he had con- 
strued his Greek with his usual infelicity ; had dis- 
tinguished himself at football as much as ever ; had 
added the ordinary amount to his tick at the pastry- 
cook’s — and yet, behold he was gone! What had 
he done ? What had he done to be withdrawn with 
such excessive suddenness from the midst of his 
fellow-sinners ? Not even Bilkins minor , his brother, 
could tell us that. We lingered about in knots all 
day, discussing his possible crime ; and if it was the 
object of our head-master to hush matters up by this 
secret method of ejection, that object was certainly 
not attained. Even now, after the lapse of I dare 
not say how long, a certain weird and appalling 
mystery clings to Bilkins, with whom I have no ac- 
quaintance, but whom I meet going about Lincoln’s 
Inn, to outward appearance a very ordinary barris- 
ter. The particular offence that caused his abrupt 
departure from school was never known, although it 
must surely have been one of those which we im- 
puted to him. If not, it must have been original 
sin indeed — pure Bilkinsism. 

In 1723 a gentleman named Annesley was expect- 
ed by his friends from Kotterdam, to arrive in Lon- 
don by a certain vessel, in which, he wrote, he had 
already secured a berth. On his non-appearance a 
search was instituted among the shipping in the 
Thames; the craft which he had described was 
boarded, and the captain — one Philip Boclie — and 
crew examined. They denied all knowledge of such 
a person. There was nothing to disprove this 


MISSING. 


217 


except Mr. Annesley’s letter, which gave, how- 
ever, such details as it was impossible to mistake. 
Upon a representation to the Secretary of State, 
the vessel was placed under surveillance, and the 
letters sent by the suspected persons were opened 
on their passage through the post. A communica- 
tion from Roche to his wife furnished the clue to 
quite a labyrinth of nautical crime. In his early 
career this wretch had driven a tolerable trade by 
sinking ships which he had previously insured be- 
yond their value ; but having been appointed mate 
to a trader bound for Cape Breton, he had mutinied 
with others of the crew, and thrown the captain and 
half a dozen sailors overboard. It had then been 
his intention to turn pirate in the western seas ; but 
finding his provisions getting short, he had been 
obliged to put back to Portsmouth, where he painted 
the vessel afresh, and gave her a fictitious name. 
Then he traded — commencing with the stolen cargo 
— but with this hideous addition to his commercial 
gains, that he was ready to take passengers, with 
valuable property, to any port they pleased ; only 
when he got a little way out to sea he drowned 
them ; and thus he had murdered the unsuspecting 
Mr. Annesley. For this, Roche was hanged at 
Execution Dock ; but before that righteous punish- 
ment overtook him, what unimaginable misery must 
such a monster have caused! what mysterious 
woe ! what fruitless and heart-sickening hope ! 

A still more curious case, but without its tragic 
horror, was that of Mr. Duplex, which occurred in 


218 


MISSING. 


1787. This gentleman having arrived from Mar- 
gate by the hoy one day, had taken a boat in the 
Thames, to be set on shore at Tower Stairs ; this 
was boarded, however, by some persons calling them- 
selves revenue officers, who carried him and his port- 
manteau, on pretence of examining the latter, on 
board a sloop lying at anchor. Mr. Duplex followed 
his property down to the cabin, when presently, 
upon looking out of the window, he found himself 
opposite Greenwich Hospital. He was calmly in- 
formed that he was going out to sea, and as he could 
not be put on shore, had better make himself com- 
fortable. Nobody did him any injury, nor even 
robbed him of his money ; but the crew wore his best 
shirts and other fashionable garments as though they 
were their own. For three months he was constant- 
ly confined in the cabin, nor — although he could 
frequently hear the sailors leave and return to the 
ship, and in the latter case, always bringing hampers 
and boxes with them — had he the least idea at what 
port it was touching, or even on what coast he was 
cruising. He was fed, like his captors, upon salt 
beef and grog, and never made to work, or do any- 
thing unpleasant. At length, being permitted to 
come on deck, he found the sloop to be in the Bay 
of Beaumaris, North Wales ; and the man at the 
helm telling him he might go on board a fishing- 
smack that lay alongside, he did so, and was safely 
landed ; and so ended his extraordinary adventure. 
The friends of Mr. Duplex, who was a young man of 
considerable property, had offered a large reward 


MISSING. 


219 


for him, dead or alive ; and the Thames had been 
dragged for his body again and again. 

Mysterious as is the sudden disappearance of our 
fellow-creatures, the interest is considerably intensi- 
fied when they take a horse and cart with them. Yet 
that such a startling phenomenon must once, at least, 
have occurred, rests upon no less grave an authority 
than that of the “ Encyclopaedia Britannica.” In 
the beginning of the last century, as the curate of 
Sloegarp, in the Swedish province of Schonen, was 
engaged with some of his parishioners in digging turf 
in a drained marshy soil, they came upon an entire 
wagon and the skeletons of a man and horses several 
feet below the surface of the ground. If the place had 
been always a morass, such a disappearance would 
not have been so inexplicable, as it doubtless was at 
the period of its occurrence. There was once, how- 
ever, a lake upon the spot, and it is presumed that 
in attempting to cross the ice, the unfortunate 
carter, with his steeds and vehicle, fell suddenly 
through, and were swallowed up. If, as was likely, 
it was on the way home at the conclusion of the day’s 
work, the hole would have frozen over before the 
morning, and absolutely no trace have been left to 
account for their disappearance. The explanation 
was doubtless supplied by superstition, for whom a 
finer opportunity can surely never have occurred. 

Another instance of the total disappearance of a 
horse has happened within very modem times. No 
less celebrated an animal than a certain winner of 
the Derby was, immediately after that great victory, 


220 


MISSING. 


lost forever to the admiring eyes of men. There 
was some, talk of his having entered a veterinary 
college — to complete his education, I suppose — but 
such a course could only be paralleled by a senior 
wrangler being sent to a preparatory school to learn 
arithmetic. A darker story is afloat, that the noble 
animal was basely murdered on account of his 
teeth ; not, indeed, for the sake of depriving him of 
those ornaments, but to prevent their revealing the 
fact that he was over three years old — past the legal 
age at which an animal is permitted to run for the 
blue ribbon of the turf, and therefore not entitled 
to the honors — and emoluments — he had carried off. 
The favorite for the Derby of the very year in ques- 
tion had “ pitfalls ” dug for him, so that he might 
break his legs in his morning “ gallop ; ” but even 
that atrocity seems less tremendous than the secret 
assassination to which the finger of suspicion points 
in this case. There has been nothing like it since 
the murder of the Duke d’Enghien. 

To quit horses and return to humanity, however, 
the saddest disappearance of which I remember ever 
to have read was that of a Captain Routh of the 
Indian army, who came home on leave from Calcutta, 
to be married to a Miss Ling in Hertfordshire. The 
better-known case of Mr. Gordier in Guernsey af- 
fords a very close parallel to it in many respects ; 
but the fate of the latter gentleman was discovered 
for certain, while that of the Indian officer was never 
cleared up, although open to the darkest suspicion. 
Captain Routh arrived at Southampton, and was 


MISSING. 


221 


identified as having been a passenger by the coach 
from that place to London. But after having safely 
accomplished so many hundred miles, he never at- 
tained that place, such a little way off, where his 
bride awaited him. He neither came nor wrote. 
She read his name in the list of passengers by the 
Europa, and looked for him hour by hour, in vain. 
What excuses must not her love have made for him ! 
How she must have clung to one frail chance after 
another, until her last hope left her ! How infinitely 
more terrible must such vague wretchedness have 
been to bear than if she had known him to have 
been struck down by the fatal sun-ray of Bengal, or 
drowned in Indian seas! Where was he? What 
could have become of him ? 

This young lady had a cousin of the name of 
Penrhyn, about her own age, who had been brought 
up in the same family, and, although much attached 
to her, had not been hitherto considered to entertain 
toward her warmer feelings than those of kinship. 
But as month after month, and year after year, went 
by without tidings of the missing bridegroom, he 
began to court her as a lover. She, for her part, 
refused to listen to his addresses, but her mother 
favored them, and, plunged in melancholy, the girl 
did not take the pains to repulse him which probably 
she would otherwise have done. She accepted, or at 
least she did not reject, a ring of his, which she even 
wore on her finger ; but whenever he spoke to her, 
or tendered her any service, she turned from him 
with something like loathing. Whether this was re- 


222 


MISSING. 


marked upon so much before the following circum- 
stances occurred, it would be interesting to learn ; 
but all who knew them now testify, that whereas in 
earlier days she had taken pleasure in her cousins 
society, it seemed to become absolutely hateful to 
her, subsequent to her calamity. 

About three years after Captain Routh’s disap- 
pearance, a brother-officer and friend of his, one 
Major Brooks, having business in England, was in- 
vited into Hertfordshire by Mrs. Ling, at the urgent 
request of her daughter. So far, however, from 
being overcome by the association of the major’s 
presence with her lost lover, Miss Ling seemed to 
take pleasure in nothing so much -as hearing him 
talk of his missing friend. Mr. Penrhyn appears to 
have taken this in some dudgeon ; perhaps he grew 
apprehensive that a present rival might be even 
more fatal to his hopes than the memory of an 
absent one ; but, at all events, the two gentlemen 
quarrelled. Mr. Penrhyn — who lived in the neigh- 
borhood — protested that he would not enter the 
house during the major’s stay, and remained at his 
own residence. During this estrangement, the con- 
versation between Brooks and Miss Ling had Cap- 
tain Routh for its topic more than ever. In speak- 
ing of the absence of all clue to what had become of 
him, the major observed: 

“ There is one thing that puzzles me almost as 
much as the loss of my poor friend himself. You 
say that his luggage was found at the inn where the 
coach stopped in London ? ” 


MISSING. 


223 


“ It was,” said the lady. “ I am thankful to say 
that I have numberless tokens of his dear self.” 

“ There is one thing, though, which I wonder 
that he parted with,” pursued the major, “ and did 
not always carry about with him, as he promised to 
do. I was with him in the bazaar at Calcutta when 
he bought for you that twisted ring ” 

“ That ring,” cried the poor girl — “ that ring ? ” 
and with a frightful shriek she instantly swooned 
away. 

Her mother came running in to know what was 
the matter ; Brooks made some evasive explanation, 
but, while she was applying restoratives, inquired, 
as carelessly as he could, who had given to her 
daughter that beautiful ring. 

“ Oh, Willy Penrhyn,” said she. “ That is the 
only present, poor fellow ! he could ever get Bachel 
to accept.” 

Upon this Major Brooks went straight to Pen- 
rliyn’s house, but was denied admittance; where- 
upon he wrote to him the following letter : 

“ Sir : I have just seen a ring upon the hand of 
the betrothed wife of my murdered friend, Herbert 
Routh ; he bought it for that purpose himself, but 
you have presented it. I know that he always wore 
it on his little finger, and never parted with it by 
any chance. I demand, therefore, to know by what 
means you became possessed of it. I shall require 
to see you in person at five o’clock this afternoon, 
and shall take no denial. “James Brooks.” 


224 


MISSING. 


The major arrived at Mr. Penrhyn’s house at the 
time specified, but found him a dead man. He had 
taken poison upon the receipt of the above letter ; 
and so, as is supposed, departed the only human 
being that could have unravelled the mystery of the 
missing Captain Routh. Still, it is barely possible 
that he may not have been his murderer after all ; 
if he were, it was surely the height of imprudence 
to have given away a thing so easily identified, and 
that to the very person of all others from whom he 
should have concealed it. It is curious, that direct- 
ly we begin to suspect the commission of a partic- 
ular crime, however dreadful, and seem to recognize 
the offender, as in this case, the horror of the matter 
subsides. But, as we said at the beginning of this 
paper, disappearance is, in truth, more terrible than 
death, and it is reasonable to hope that the sudden 
withdrawal of a wretch from the living world — his 
disappearance at the jail-gate forever — strikes a 
greater terror into the criminal population than the 
old brutal exhibitions outside of Newgate. 


INADEQUATE MOTIVE. 


It is not the mission of the gleaner of these an- 
nals, in spite of his didactic style, to open up the 
great question of crime and circumstance. Certain 
it is, that as most of us are good-tempered so long 
as we are pleased, so most of us are honest when 
there is no temptation to be otherwise. It would 
surely be as monstrous in any of their juvenile 
royal highnesses, brought up on “ the Slopes ” at 
Windsor Castle, to take to abstracting pocket-hand- 
kerchiefs, or to removing pewter-pots from area rail- 
ings, as for any youth of Whitechapel, reared in a 
“ guilt garden,” to consume his week-day leisure in 
improving study, or his Sundays in religious exer- 
cises. It is probable that there are at least as many 
ragged boys in the metropolis at this moment who 
are naturally looking forward to thieving as their 
future calling, as there are young gentlemen in 
broadcloth aspiring to law, or physic, or divinity. 
And yet that is a dangerous theory indeed which 
avers that man is the creature of circumstance. 

In the dark annals of which we write, it may 
seem probable that this theory would receive par- 
ticular confirmation, since the restraining influences 
15 


226 


INADEQUATE MOTIVE. 


for good — such as religion, morality, and example 
— are, of course, in many cases altogether lacking, 
and the criminal, doomed from the womb, ripens, 
quickly or slowly, with every sun, as fruit for the 
gallows. No such general conclusion can, however, 
be drawn. A number of cases, indeed, seem to favor 
it ; but others, too numerous to be mere exceptions, 
contradict it quite as decidedly. Some natures, as 
it seems, are so hard that nothing can bend them ; 
others are so elastic, that though they do bend on 
pressure, the instant that the external force is re- 
moved they spring back again to their old positions. 
One thing, however, is* certain and noteworthy ; 
among criminals, it is not the most determined 
characters who are the hardest to deal with. The 
will of these persons can be broken, if it cannot be 
bent ; and indeed, when the law resolutely takes it 
in hand to be “ determined ” also, the most appar- 
ently inflexible will, sooner or later, generally gives 
in. The men of impulse, on the other hand, are be- 
yond measure dangerous ; they are affected by no 
consequences ; and it is impossible to guard against 
their actions, since these are caused by motives 
totally inadequate. One of the greatest objects 
with the counsel for the prosecution is always to 
assign motive for the commission of a criminal act ; 
but, in reality, criminal offences — and particularly 
very grave ones — are often committed, if not out of 
wantonness, yet upon the very slightest provocation. 
Thus, the Marquis de Paleotti, the head of a noble 
Italian family, and brother of the Duchess of 


INADEQUATE MOTIVE. 


227 ‘ 


Shrewsbury, drew his sword upon his own servant 
(who had merely declined to attempt to borrow 
money for his master from one who had already 
given him frequent denials), and slew him in the 
open street. Yet this man submitted himself qui- 
etly enough to justice, although bewailing the vul- 
garity of the country which held the life of a noble- 
man of no greater value than that of a footman. 
When he suffered at Tyburn, he obtained from the 
sheriffs permission to have the pas of his fellow- 
criminals, so that he might die uncontaminated by 
their plebeian company. 

In 1742, the murder of no less than eleven per- 
sons was committed in a countrj*-house near Tuam, 
solely because the proprietor thereof did not allow 
his son such an allowance as that gentleman consid- 
ered necessary. Oliver Bodkin, the father, had 
married a second time, of which union there was a 
son of seven years old. These two, Mrs. Bodkin, 
and a visitor of the name of Lynch, were sitting at 
supper together, when John Bodkin, the elder son, 
fell upon them with three other ruffians, and killed 
them all; they then murdered four men-servants 
and three maid-servants — all the inmates of the 
dwelling, in fact ; and not content with that, they 
destroyed the very dogs and cats. One of these 
wretches was foster-father to the boy, and made 
some attempt to save him, but otherwise there does 
not seem to have been a particle of human feeling 
among the whole gang. They had joined John Bod- 
kin in his execrable enterprise without the least 


228 


INADEQUATE MOTIVE. 


compunction, and without the prospect, or even the 
promise, of reward. 

The curious case of John Macnaughton exhibits a 
similar inadequacy of motive for the commission of 
murder, and remarkably displays the frightful re- 
sults to which an overbearing and egotistic dis- 
position may lead. It is not too much to say that 
if this man, instead of being an Irish gentleman of 
good birth and moderate fortune, as he was, had 
chanced to have been born a despot, he would have 
made an excellent specimen of the class. When he 
was not crossed, he seems to have been an agreeable, 
amiable, and courteous person. “To an outward 
form,” says his biographer, “ which was perfectly en- 
gaging, he added the genteelest demeanor ; ” and he 
lost his money (for he cultivated the gentlemanly 
vice of gaming) “ with a graceful and calm compos- 
ure.” Under this smooth and smiling surface there 
were, however, unfathomable depths of passion. 
Upon the occasion of a sheriff’s officer obtaining en- 
trance into his house, he was cast into such a whirl- 
wind of rage that his poor wife, who chanced to be 
in a delicate situation, was literally frightened to 
death — a circumstance which threw him into “ such 
a distraction,” that he withdrew himself from so- 
ciety, and did not return to the world and its gam- 
ing-tables for eighteen months. The penitent 
widower had by that time, however, so far recovered 
himself as to think of marrying for the second time. 
The lady whom this broken gamester designed for 
his second nuptials was only fifteen, of remarkable 


INADEQUATE MOTIVE. 


229 


accomplishments, very beautiful, and the daughter 
of a country gentleman of property named Knox. 
Her father being unconvinced of the eligibility of 
Mr. Macnaughton as a son-in-law, forbade him, as 
soon as he entered upon the subject, even to mention 
the matter again, and drew from him a solemn prom- 
ise that he would not speak to the girl of any such 
thing, upon which understanding only his visits to 
the house were still permitted. Taking advantage of 
the opportunities thus offered him, Macnaughton 
still prosecuted his suit, and being one day in com- 
pany with Miss Knox and a little boy (who stood 
for witness), he pressed her to let him read the 
marriage-service, while she made the responses, 
which she did — taking care, however, to make the 
proviso in every one, “ That is, if I obtain my father’s 
consent.” 

This extraordinary ceremony he chose to consider 
as a formal marriage ; and upon Mr. Knox desiring 
him to leave the house, he put an advertisement 
into the papers, setting forth that Miss Knox was 
his wife, and cautioning all male persons whom it 
might concern that they were not to marry her. 
This was replied to by a counter-advertisement from 
the father, with an affidavit of the whole affair 
annexed, and signed by the young lady. Besides 
this, he brought an action in the prerogative court, 
and got any shadow of legality which such a pro- 
ceeding as Macnaughton’s might have possessed set 
aside as worthless. In spite of this, Macnaughton 
surrendered nothing of his pretensions, but hovered 


230 


INADEQUATE MOTIVE . 


about tlie neighborhood of Mr. Knox’s house, so 
that the poor girl “had to lead the life of a recluse ; ” 
she could not even get the change of air which her 
failing health demanded, since this fellow dogged 
her wherever she went, in various disguises. 

On the 10th of November, 1761, having received 
information that Mr. Knox and the young lady 
would set out on that day for Dublin in their coach 
and six, he concealed himself, with three armed 
accomplices, in a certain cabin by the roadside. 
One of these men he sent on to watch for the 
vehicle, and then to return and point out to him in 
what positions its inmates were placed. Upon the 
coach coming up, it was stopped by these people, 
in highwayman fashion ; and on the windows being 
pulled up, Macnaughton ran round and fired into 
the coach obliquely with a gun loaded with five 
balls, all of which were lodged in the body of the 
unfortunate young lady, who expired in three hours. 
Upon his trial, Macnaughton defended himself with 
uncommon ability, protesting that he had no inten- 
tion of shooting “his beloved wife” (at the mention 
of whose name he wept), and producing a letter 
written to him by Miss Knox, in which she besought 
him to intercept her on the way to Dublin, and 
carry her off : he averred that he had no other object 
than to do this, but that, being wounded by a shot 
from one of the servants, the anguish so distracted 
him, that he fired at he knew not whom, and had 
the misfortune to destroy the person dearest to him 
in all the world. This letter, however, was proved 


INADEQUATE MOTIVE. 


231 


to be a forgery of his own, while the detailed in- 
formation which had been given him as to what 
part of the coach Miss Knox was occupying seems 
to dispose of his innocence of intention. The jury, 
at all events^found him “ guilty ” without the least 
hesitation. This verdict Macnaughton received 
with indifference, only he besought the court to 
have mercy upon his accomplice Dunlap (the other 
two having made their escape), who was a tenant of 
his own, and had been induced to join in his enterprise 
upon the promise of the reneival of a lease ivhich was 
just expiring. Both were sentenced to be hanged ; 
but such was the popularity of Mr. Macnaughton 
that no carpenter could be found to make the 
gallows, which was accordingly constructed “ by an 
uncle of the young lady and another gentleman.” 
The sheriff was even obliged to take soldiers to a 
smith’s shop and force him to take off the criminal’s 
“ bolts,” without which it would have been illegal to 
execute him. After all, the rope broke, and let 
Macnaughton down among the people, who fled to 
right and left, in hopes to favor his escape ; but 
the executioner having borrowed (!) the second rope 
of Dunlap, the sentence was eventually carried out. 
To this miserable end was this gentleman brought, 
in his eight-and-thirtieth year, through a sort of 
petulant passion, an impatience of denial truly 
childish. 

But perhaps the most curious instance of in- 
adequacy of motive is that exhibited by Phineas 
Adams, who suffered what may well be called torture, 


232 


INADEQUATE MOTIVE. 


both severe and prolonged, in order to avoid serving 
as a militiaman. In 1812, which was the date of 
Adams’s volunteer martyrdom, I suppose the militia 
was a less agreeable service than it is now. Not 
many years before, indeed, Brighton — the now chosen 
theatre for the evolutions of thousands of willing and 
unpaid soldiers — was the scene of the execution of 
two of the Oxfordshire militia for mutiny. Two were 
shot, and three others received three hundred lashes 
each ; “ these were all they received then” observes 
the narrator, “ as, from their long durance and con- 
sequent weakness, the surgeon of the regiment pro- 
nounced that they could suffer no more.” During 
the infliction of these punishments, artillery were 
stationed with lighted matches in the rear of the 
Oxfordshire, to prevent any attempt at rescue, while 
the Colestown Hill was held by two thousand cavalry. 
A convincing illustration, truly, of the general content 
and cheerful discipline which prevailed in those good 
old times. Still, it does not appear that Phineas 
Adams suffered any wrong, or had anything to com- 
plain of as a private of the 1st Somersetshire regi- 
ment of militia. In the beginning of the year, 
however, he applied for surgical aid, in consequence 
of an ulceration on his arm, which, it was quite evi- 
dent, he had himself occasioned by a course of per- 
severing blistering. Upon his recovering in spite of 
himself, and failing to obtain his discharge, he de- 
serted from the regiment, and being apprehended, 
was lodged in Taunton Jail. On April 24th he 
managed to have an excellent fall down some stone 


INADEQUATE MOTIVE. 


233 


steps, severely injuring a person ascending them, and 
coming to the ground with such violence as to cause 
the blood to ooze from his own ears. This, a day or 
two afterward, caused him to become stone-deaf. 
His medical attendant, however, suspecting his in- 
genious design, inquired of him, in a subdued 
whisper, whether he really was so very deaf, to 
which the patient indiscreetly answered : “ very 
deaf indeed.” Upon this, he was informed that 
he was “ malingering,” and that “ it wouldn’t do,” 
whereupon Private Phineas Adams immediately fell 
into a state of profound insensibility, and remained 
in it for about fifteen weeks. 

Every disagreeable method of arousing him was 
tried in vain. His head and back were profusely 
blistered ; snuff, cheap, but strong, was thrust up 
his nostrils, and pungent salts applied, without any 
effect whatever. They then tried “nitrous oxide 
gas, the operation of which,” remarks our hero’s 
biographer, “ is known to occasion so extraordinary 
a degree of mental and bodily excitation.” The 
tube affixed to the gas-bladder was applied to the 
patient’s mouth, but his teeth were so resolutely 
closed that all endeavors to open them proved fruit- 
less. His lips and nostrils were then compressed, 
and every means taken to compel him to inhale the 
gaseous fluid only, nor was the attempt discontinued 
until his pulse became intermittent from his ceasing 
to breathe. When his limbs were raised, they fell 
again with the leaden weight of total inanition, and 
all the sustenance he received was eggs diluted with 


234 


INADEQUATE MOTIVE . 


wine, ancl sucked through his teeth. Various inter- 
esting experiments were resorted to, in vain, to ex- 
cite sensation, “and in particular, the thrusting pins 
into his finger-nails.” In this hopeless condition, 
the propriety of scalping the patient was suggested j 
in order to ascertain whether the fall, to which his 
illness, if genuine, was attributed, might not have 
produced depression on the brain. The consent, 
and even the attendance, of Adams’s father having 
been obtained, the doctor explained, in the patient’s 
presence, what course of operation was about to be 
adopted. Adams senior then shaved his son’s head. 
The incisions were made, the scalp drawn up, and 
the head examined, during all which the young 
man — he was but eighteen — once only uttered a 
single groan. No beneficial result appearing even 
from this, application was made to the regiment for 
the man’s discharge. This order of release was 
brought to the insensible youth on August 20th. 
On August 29th, he was sitting with his father at 
his own home at Bickenhall, with a gun in his hand ; 
and the next day assisted him, as usual, at his day’s 
work. A report having reached his ears that a 
press-gang was coming for him in consequence of 
the imposition he had practised, Phineas Adams 
absconded, nor do we hear anything of him after- 
ward. He lived in an age and country that were 
ill adapted for the recognition of his virtues ; whereas 
the Spartans — for his roguery, as much as for his 
endurance — would have unanimously elected him to 
be their king. 


THE IRRESPONSIBLE. 


“ Irresistible homicidal impulse ” and “ klepto- 
mania ” are diseases known only to our modern 
criminal code. No thief ever dreamed of defending 
his act upon the plea that “ he couldn’t help it ” in 
the good old times. Had he done so, the judge 
would doubtless have replied that “ lie couldn’t help 
it either,” and proceeded to pass sentence of death. 
“ Irresistible homicidal impulse ” was the very thing, 
indeed, which seems to have then actuated the 
king’s justices, but it was not taken account of at 
all in the case of the prisoner at the bar. 

I am very far from believing that all our benevo- 
lent reforms in this particular branch of the law have 
been beneficial. The strenuous endeavors that are 
now made to save the lives of those who are proved 
to be at the best but bloodthirsty madmen seem to 
me to be worthy of a better cause ; while as to 
fashionable and amateur shoplifters, methinks that 
want ought to hold at least as good an excuse for a 
thief as an uncontrollable propensity for stealing. 
The disease is confessedly not understood by the 
Faculty, who are all in the dark as to the remedy ; 
why not therefore try a legal prescription of this 
sort ? 


236 


THE IRRESPONSIBLE . 


^ . Tied millis : dies 36 de die in diem contin : adliibend. 
" Unguent Pic Okum ter in dies palmis infricand. Sumatur 
quot. Puls. Dribred in aq. : Pomp : quant, suff. ; ad 
nauseam — et rep. doz. si opus fuerit. 

The law, in order to render a man responsible for 
any crime, now looks for a “ consciousness of right 
and wrong, and a knowledge of the consequences of 
the act.” Yet, remarks Professor Taylor, Hadfield, 
who was tried for shooting at George III., and ac- 
quitted on the ground of insanity, both knew that he 
was doing wrong, and that the punishment of death 
would follow from the commission of his crime ; his 
avowed motive being that he might be put to death 
by others, since he was unwilling to take his own 
life. Martin, too, who set fire to York Cathedral, 
was aware that that act was illegal, and liable to 
penalty ; but he said he had the Divine command to 
commit it. Macnaughten, who was tried for the 
murder of Mr. Drummond, was acquitted “upon an 
illegal homicidal climax (!) occurring at the particu- 
lar moment when the deceased’s back was turned.” 
Under these circumstances, there is no such thing as 
a murder ; there are homicidal climaxes, that is all. 
Surely it would be well if something of this exces- 
sive legal solicitude should be shared by the vic- 
tim whose case is considered at present as of little 
consequence by comparison — in short, as anticli- 
max. 

A century ago, however, and much later, it is cer- 
tain that very many persons were imprisoned and 
put to death who ought, according to the law itself, 


TIIE IRRESPONSIBLE. 


237 


to have been lodged in lunatic asylums ; * but per- 
haps in those days the juries were more consider- 
ate about running their respective counties into 
expenses. The case of Captain Bruluman is a cu- 
rious illustration of this, the plea of insanity not 
having been even set up for him, as it seems. The 

* There was in 1863, in a certain metropolitan asylum, a very 
remarkable example of homicidal madness. One of the quietest 
and most accomplished of its inmates, who had done much 
toward its internal decoration by his execution of frescoes 
upon the walls and ceilings, had just one weakness which pre- 
vented his being at large — namely, an unconquerable desire to 
cut throats. He had destroyed his father and uncle upon the 
same day in this manner, but had no recollection of his own 
share in that catastrophe ; he remarked upon it, indeed, as a 
curious coincidence, that both these relatives should have died 
within a few minutes of one another, and of the same complaint. 
After the commission of this deed, he put a new handle to his 
razor, and took coach to a seaport town with the intention of em- 
barking for the Continent, and subsequently of reaching Rome, 
where he intended to perform no less a feat than that of cutting 
the jugular of the Pope. He did not intend to fritter away his 
talents upon any inferior object, but a fellow-passenger on the 
coach exhibited a neck so very tempting, that he could not resist 
the opportunity of going to work on that. His whole conduct 
seems, in fact, as though it were intended to practically illus- 
trate De Quincey’s famous essay on “ Murder Considered as one 
of the Fine Arts. ” By giving way to this temptation en route , 
the great object of this journey was frustrated ; he was seized 
and shut up in the asylum for life. Here, as I have said, he 
amused himself with painting, in which he was a great profi- 
cient ; he suffered his subjects to be chosen from him, only stip- 
ulating that they were such as would admit of the introduction of 
plenty of blood. His last work, if I remember right, was entitled 
The Good Samaritan, and the victim by the wayside had certain- 
ly been made to lose a considerable quantity of the vital fluid. 


238 


THE IRRESPONSIBLE. 


crime for which he suffered was committed in Phil- 
adelphia, but when the United States were a British 
colony, and therefore, I conclude, the proceedings 
were conducted precisely as they would have been at 
home. This Bruluman had been a silversmith, but 
had left that business for the army, in which he had 
risen to be a captain in the Boyal American Regi- 
ment. He was “broken,” however, for counterfeit- 
ing base money, and disliking a vagabond life, de- 
termined, according to his own account, upon the 
commission of some crime for which he would cer- 
tainly be hanged.* After forming this design, he loads 
his gun with a brace of bullets, and asks his land- 
lord to go shooting with him, with the intention 
of killing that individual. Luckily for the latter, he 
had some business which kept him at home, so 
Bruluman sallies forth alone, gun in hand, with the 
cheerful intention, quite devoid of malice, of putting 
its contents into somebody. He meets a gentleman 
on the road who seems to his easily-satisfied mind 
a person very suitable to his purpose, but upon re- 
flecting that there are no witnesses present to prove 
him guilty ,f he suffers him to go by scathless. He 

* Like Hadfield, whose case I shall presently glance at, he 
seems to have entertained religious scruples against committing 
suicide. 

f The morbid desire of suffering death at the hand of the law 
has recurred again — in the case of the murder of the poor boy in 
Chatham lines — since the above chapter was written. Where 
the criminal expresses this longing of his friends, would it not 
be better, before he proceeds to the act to homicide, to gratify 
him by a summary execution ? 


THE IRRESPONSIBLE. 


239 


then enters an inn, and hearing some people in a 
public-room over head playing at billiards, he joins 
them, and hangs his gun up in their apartment. All 
the company are unknown to him, but he enters in- 
to conversation with them in apparent good humor. 
Upon Mr. Scull, one of the players, making a win- 
ning hazard, Bruluman observes : “ Sir, you are a 

good marksman ! now I’ll show you a fine stroke.” 
With that he takes down his gun, levels it at Mr. 
Scull (who imagines him, of course, to be in jest), 
deliberately takes aim, and shoots him through the 
body. He then goes up to the dying man, who is 
still sensible, and thus addresses him : “ Sir, I have 
no malice or ill-will against you ; I. never saw you 
before ; but I was determined to kill somebody, that 
I might be hanged, and you happen to be the man. 
I am sincerely sorry for your misfortune.” 

Mr. Scull had time to send for his friends and 
to make his will, after which he expired, begging 
that his murderer might, if possible, be pardoned. 
Captain Bruluman, however, was promptly put 
upon his trial, sentenced, and hanged, without the 
least suggestion being made as to his being of un- 
sound mind. He is described as having “ exulted ” 
when upon the scaffold. 

In 1787, Samuel Burt, a young man of excellent 
character, but characterized as laboring under great 
depression of mind, evinced this same remarkable 
desire to suffer death at the hands of the law. 
“ Being aware,” writes his biographer, in total un- 
consciousness of his own satire, “that though the 


240 


THE IRRESPONSIBLE. 


crime of Murder, under particular circumstances, 
has found mercy, that of Forgery was unpardon- 
able,” Burt committed the latter offence. Upon 
being found “ guilty,” and asked by the Recorder of 
London why sentence of death should not be passed 
on him, he thus replied: “ My lord, I am too 
sensible of the crime I have committed, and for 
which I justly deserve to suffer, not to know that I 
have forfeited my life, which I wish to resign into 
the hands of Him who gave it. To give my reasons 
for this would only satisfy an idle curiosity ; no one 
can feel a more sensible heartfelt satisfaction in the 
hopes of passing shortly into eternity, wherein, I 
trust, I shall meet with great felicity. I have no 
desire to live ; and as the jury and court in my trial 
thought proper to recommend me to mercy, if his 
Majesty should in consequence thereof grant me a 
respite, I here vow in the face of Heaven that I will 
put an end to my own existence as soon as I can.” 

The only case in these strange annals of the past 
that seems precisely to resemble those which are so 
well known to our modern courts of justice under 
the euphonious title of “ Homicidal Mania,” is that 
of David Williams. This youth, having become 
through accident a cripple, fell into so morbid and 
despairing a state of mind as to determine to have 
done with life. The idea of suicide he rejected, as 
a crime too great for Heaven to pardon, as likewise 
the murder of a grown person with all his sins upon 
his head; but to put a guileless child to death 
seemed to him a harmless as well as certain method 


THE IRRESPONSIBLE. 


241 


of getting himself hanged. His incessant desire to 
effect this purpose, Williams himself described as 
“something like a hankering after fruit.” This he 
eventually gratified, under particularly atrocious 
circumstances, and for once “ old Father Antic, the 
Law,” understood that it had a lunatic to deal with, 
and decreed accordingly. 

Crime, however, produced by fanaticism, was by 
no means uncommon at the beginning of the present 
century, and it seems to have been set down to its 
proper cause. Though Science was rarely permitted 
in court to speak in mitigation, Religion obtained a 
hearing, otherwise the Rev. John Carroll, Catholic 
priest in Wexford, would, without doubt, have been 
hanged for working miracles which resulted in the 
death of the person sought to be benefited. This 
unfortunate man appears to have been seized with 
an ambition to rival the Rev. Prince Hohenlohe, 
whose pretended cures made such a sensation, and 
in 1824 he started as a wonder-worker upon his own 
account. He had always been a little wild upon the 
subject of exorcism, and given to imagining that 
everybody who chanced to disagree with him was 
possessed by a devil ; but by the use of sedative 
medicines and obedience to his medical adviser, he 
had up to this date kept his enthusiasm within 
reasonable limits. On a certain day, however, and 
while in the actual performance of divine service, he 
became suddenly conscious of being endowed with 
miraculous powers, and rushed out of his chapel in 
search of an object for their immediate manifesta- 
16 


242 


THE IRRESPONSIBLE. 


tion. One of his parishioners, named Neill, hap- 
pening to be confined to his bed by illness, he en- 
tered his cottage, and precipitated himself upon 
the unhappy invalid. The process which the priest 
regarded as most particularly effectual for the sick 
was identical with a well-known remedy for heretics 
— namely, that of pommelling, and this he put into 
practice with excessive energy. After a long assault, 
he announced that he had accomplished his errand, 
and taken prisoner the enemy of mankind, whom it 
was now only necessary to immerse in the Bed Sea, 
which (in the character of the river Slaney) chanced 
to be fortunately handy. He left the cottage, there- 
fore, in an attitude of importance commensurate 
with the greatness of the occasion, with one arm 
akimbo, and the other extended, as one of the wit- 
nesses expressed it, “ as if he held the devil by the 
tail,” and so, with measured pace and mysterious 
aspect, he dropped the imaginary demon over the 
bridge. All on a sudden, however, it struck Father 
Carroll, that the patient had seven more devils to 
be treated in the same manner, and he returned 
post-haste to his sick parishioner, who no sooner 
perceived the exorcist returning than he leapt out 
of bed, and acknowledged himself perfectly cured. 
This very natural proceeding was taken by the 
spectators as proof of Carroll’s super-human powers, 
and established his medical reputation. He at 
once accepted a pressing invitation to pay a visit to 
a sick child, whom he straightway put under a tub, 
on the top of which he stood and danced till day- 


THE IRRESPONSIBLE. 


243 


light, when, it is needless to say, the poor little 
patient was discovered to have been suffocated. 
For this murder the fanatic was tried. Two physi- 
cians — prototypes of our medical “experts” of the 
witness-box — were examined for the defence, how- 
ever, and Father Carroll was acquitted as insane. 

The case of Amy George, in the same year, is 
noteworthy as having arisen from the religious “ re- 
vivals ” of that time. The girl in question was one 
of the workers in a mine at Bedruth, in Cornwall, 
and her family and herself were Methodists. “ I 
went for her,” says her mother, “ to the revival one 
night, about half-past ten o’clock, she having been 
there from two o' clock in the day. I found the chapel 
extremely crowded. My daughter caught sight of 
me, and immediately lifted up her arms, and en- 
treated her dear father and myself to perceive the 
spiritual danger we were in. She had lost her 
bonnet, cloak, handkerchief, and pattens, and was 
extremely disordered in her dress. . . . She 

would sometimes come home praying horribly ; it 
is generally called 4 screeching for mercy/ . . . 

My daughter’s conduct after attending the revivals 
was quite different to what it had been.” From the 
girl’s own confession, it appears that she became 
impressed with the necessity of murdering some 
child in order to secure its eternal happiness. She 
expresses her regret that on one occasion, when she 
saw a little boy, a stranger, standing by the engine- 
house of .the mine, she did not push him down the 
shaft. She owns to having let slip another oppor- 


244 


THE IRRESPONSIBLE. 


tunity of the same description, where “ there were 
two children at play, and another shaft close along- 
side of the road.” On returning home one evening, 
her mother observed : “ Your supper is ready for 
you, Amy ; you can take it, for I am going to meet- 
ing, and little Benny [a child of seven years old] 
will remain at home with you.” She felt glad at 
being thus left alone with her brother, as she would 
be thereby enabled to put her cherished purpose 
into execution. She gave the child part of her sup- 
per, and said to him : “ Should you like to go to 
heaven, dear ? ” Then she took down a black silk 
handkerchief, and put it round her brother’s neck, 
tying it, as she thought, in a running knot, and 
asked him : “ Is it too tight, dear ? ” The child 
looked up in her face, and smiled, and said “ No.” 
There was a crook behind the door, and she took 
the child up in one arm, and with the other hand 
put the handkerchief over the crook, and looked him 
full in the face, and left the room. Upon the 
mother’s return, she found the little fellow dead be- 
hind the door. 

The case of this poor visionary seems to have 
excited unusual commiseration, and the court, in 
ordering her to be detained in custody as a lunatic, 
assured her friends that she would not long be kept 
from them. The revival in Redruth, which certainly 
caused the death of the child, probably saved the 
life of his murderess. Had Amy George gone out 
of her mind without its assistance, and independ- 
ently of any general fanaticism, she would have 


THE IRRESPONSIBLE. 


245 


been left to her fate. In Copenhagen, in 1767, we 
are told by the Annual Register of that date, “ that 
persons in that city were seized with a disorder of 
mind extremely dangerous to society. This is an 
imagination that, by committing premeditated mur- 
der, and being afterward condemned to die for it, 
they are the better able, by public marks of repent- 
ance and conversions as they go to the scaffold, to 
prepare themselves for death, and work out their 
own salvation. ... In order, however, to take 
from these wretches all hope of obtaining their end, 
and to extirpate the evil, the King has issued an 
ordinance, by which his Majesty forbids the punish- 
ing of them with death, and enacts that they shall 
be branded in the forehead with a red-hot iron, and 
whipped ; that they shall afterward be confined in 
a house of correction for the rest of their days, in 
order to be kept there to hard labor ; and lastly, 
that every year, on the day of their crime, they 
shall be whipped anew in public.” 

The old criminal law dealt wholesale with the 
peccant human family, and only in very recent times 
has acquired its daintier sense, and made allowance 
for idiosyncrasies. However humiliating is the con- 
fession, one cannot but see that the reason of this 
was, in part, that the case of the criminal was not 
held in very high account ; that exertions were not 
made in his favor which would have been made had 
a landed property instead of a human life been the 
matter in question. If you committed a will instead 
of a murder, there were infinite pains taken by those 


246 


THE IRRESPONSIBLE. 


to whom you had not left your money to prove that 
you were a totally irresponsible being. Upon the 
other hand, those who benefited by your bequest 
were eager to show that you were a person of excel- 
lent judgment, or if you had done some odd things 
in your life, that they were caused by the eccentri- 
city of genius. One of the most curious instances 
of this occurred in 1838, in which a will, wherein the 
testator had left his money, away from his relatives, 
to his housekeeper, was disputed on the ground of 
intrinsic evidence of insanity in the document itself. 
Therein the testator had directed his executors “ that 
they should cause some part of his bowels to be con- 
verted into fiddle-strings ; that others should be sub- 
limed into smelling-salts, and that the remainder of 
his body should be vitrified into lenses for optical 
purposes.” Sir H. Jenner, however, held that in- 
sanity was not proved, although the deceased had 
certainly exhibited a most uncommon desire of mak- 
ing himself generally useful. 

The only case in the old criminal annals which 
seems very closely to resemble what we now call 
“ kleptomania,” was that of Rear-Admiral Bradley, 
who, in 1814, was convicted of forgery to the amount 
of three pounds, eight shillings and sixpence ! Two- 
pence each, it appears, was at that time given for all 
foreign letters for England to the captain of the ves- 
sel that brought them home, and the postmaster at 
each port was instructed to pay the money for the 
same. Accordingly, on the 10th of March, the gal- 
lant admiral brought four hundred letters to the post- 


THE IRRESPONSIBLE. 


247 


office at Gosport, and received the usual sum for 
them. After this he came again and again, and on 
one occasion brought a great number which purported 
to have arrived by the Mary and Jane, then lying off 
Cowes. For the money for these he gave his own 
receipt, but signed it with the name William Johnson. 
The postmaster’s suspicions being naturally aroused, 
inquiries were made, and it was discovered that the 
Mary and Jane did not lie off Cowes, nor anywhere 
else, but was a phantom ship which owed its being 
entirely to the rear-admiral’s fancy. He frankly con- 
fessed that his name was not Johnson, “although he 
had a friend in Portugal of that name.” Upon this 
he was fully committed, and brought to trial at 
Winchester. Evidence was brought forward of his 
conduct having been always very eccentric, and he 
received an excellent character from many of his 
brother-officers. He was found “ guilty,” however, 
and condemned to death, and all that his friends 
could finally procure for him was a remission of the 
sentence into transportation for life. 


COMING TO LIFE AGAIN. 


One of the most beautiful poems in “In Memori- 
am ” speculates upon the kind of reception the Dead 
would meet with from their relatives, supposing 
that they could resume their life once more, with all 
their privileges of heirship and of marriage. As for 
the writer, he avers that whatever change the years 
have wrought, he finds not yet one lonely thought 
that cries against his wish for his dead friend ; but 
with regard to others, there is some reasonable 
doubt. 


“’Twas well, indeed, wlien warm with wine, 

To pledge them with a kindly tear : 

To talk them o’er, to wish them here, 

To count their memories half divine ; 

“ But if they came who past away, 

Behold their brides in other hands ; 

The hard heir strides about their lands, 

And will not yield them for a day.” 

Certainly, it would be the height of inconvenience 
for the widow, who has just given permission to Cap- 
tain Dangleton to entertain a golden hope of becom- 
ing her No. 2, to find her No. 1 resuscitated; and 
still worse, if she has actually become Mrs. D. in 
the interim. Nor would it be altogether gratifying 


COMING TO LIFE AGAIN. 


249 


to the most devoted of sons to exchange the tangible 
proceeds of a rent-roll for the old expectancy, or 
rather for a worse one, since ‘post-obits would never 
be renewed for him after such a catastrophe. And 
yet, such resuscitations have happened, not once 
only, but very many times. 

In 1685, a miller at Abbeville, passing by the 
gallows where a robber had been suspended on the 
previous day, perceived some signs of life in him. 
Being moved with compassion, he managed, with the 
assistance of a servant, to take him down, and con- 
vey him home in his cart. There he tended him care- 
fully until the felon was quite restored to health, 
with the intention of dismissing him with a sum of 
money, in order that the poor wretch might be en- 
abled to recommence life in an honest manner. Un- 
fortunately, however, this good Samaritan delayed 
the execution of this design too long ; and on a cer- 
tain Sunday — of all days in the week — this ungrate- 
ful scoundrel left the hospitable mill with as much of 
the money and valuables of the owner as he could lay 
his hands on. Now, it so happened that the curate 
of Abbeville had preached an unusually short dis- 
course, and the miller and his men came home from 
church in time to overtake the robber. This they 
did ; and without wasting any more valuable time 
in reforming him, they took him to the gallows up- 
on which they had found him, with many apolo- 
gies for having disturbed him there, in the first in- 
stance, and there they hanged him, with particular 
care ; “ pulling his wicked legs,” adds the chronicler, 


250 


COMING TO LIFE AGAIN 


“to make sure that he should thieve no more.” 
Nevertheless, the doers of this most righteous deed 
had to flee the country, until a pardon was obtained 
for them from the most Christian king. 

This seems to confirm the poet’s theory, that in 
most cases dead people should remain so, keeping in 
mind the excellence of the saying, “ Let bygones be 
bygones ; ” nevertheless, here is a case to the con- 
trary. In the Church of the Apostles at Cologne 
there is a large picture descriptive of the restoration 
to life of Reichmuth Adolch, the wife of a counsellor 
of that city, under circumstances which have been 
borrowed for materials to construct many fictitious 
stories of a similar kind. This lady was supposed 
to have died of the plague, which devastated Cologne 
in 1571 ; but being buried with a valuable ring on 
her finger, the sexton of the church thought it a 
pity such good jewellery should be wasted, and 
opened her coffin on the very night of her inter- 
ment. This conduct she resented by sitting up and 
collaring him on the instant, whereupon he fled with 
excusable precipitation, under the idea that he had 
irritated an inhabitant of the other world. Mrs. 
Adolch, however, was far from dead ; and leaving 
the vault, at once proceeded, in her grave-clothes, to 
her own house. She was not, however, “ out of the 
wood ” yet, except in the literal sense. The maid- 
servant, aroused by her ringing, declined to let her 
in, although she narrated the circumstances of her 
reappearance, through the keyhole, in order to still 
her fears. The girl was either really too terrified, 


COMING TO LIFE AGAIN. 


251 


or preferred a situation without a female head to it, 
for she did not open the door, but ran to her mas- 
ter’s room, who informed her for her pains that she 
was a mad woman ; and all this time the poor lady 
was shivering in her shroud, and almost wishing her- 
self back again under cover. At length she was ad- 
mitted, and by means of proper treatment, so en- 
tirely recovered that “ she afterward had three sons 
who were clergymen.” 

A still more wonderful death-in-life experience is 
that of Francis de Civille, who, to use his own 
words, was “ thrice dead, thrice interred, and thrice, 
by the grace of God, restored to life.” The mother 
of this gentleman, having died during pregnancy, 
was buried in her husband’s absence without any at- 
tempt being made to save her offspring ; but upon 
the return of the good man immediately afterward, 
he caused her to be disinterred, when, by means of 
the Caesarean operation, a living child rewarded his 
pious care. This child was five-and-twenty years 
old and a captain in Kouen when that city was taken 
by Charles IX. Being dreadfully wounded, and hav- 
ing fallen from the rampart into the ditch, some 
pioneers threw him, with another dead body, into a 
hole, and covered him with a little earth. Here he 
lay for seven hours, until his faithful servant came 
at dusk and dug him up, when, finding some signs 
of life, he was removed to his own home, where he 
lay for five days and nights insensible and speech- 
less. The city being taken by assault, the besiegers, 
who required his apartment for their own uses, 


252 


COMING TO LIFE AGAIN. 


threw him out of window upon a dunghill ; and 
from this couch, which seems to have possessed none 
of those disadvantageous qualities which modern 
science ascribes to it, he was rescued after a few 
days by a relative, who removed him to a place of 
safety, where he obtained a perfect cure. Extraor- 
dinary as this story appears, it seems to have at 
least considerable foundation ; nor was Francois de 
Civille a Gascon, as may be supposed, but a gentle- 
man of Normandy. 

An undoubtedly true experience of resuscitation is 
that of Margaret Dixon, of Musselburgh, who was 
hanged at Edinburgh for child-murder in 1728. 
There seems to be great doubt as to her being 
guilty of the offence with which she was charged, 
and therefore her narrow escape is as satisfactory as 
strange. At the place of execution, while owning to 
many sins, she avowed her total innocence of the 
crime in question, and her husband — who had much 
to forgive — implicitly believed that statement. Af- 
ter the body had been suspended the usual time, 
it was delivered to her friends, who put it in a cof- 
fin, and sent it in a cart to be interred in her native 
place. The persons in charge stopped to drink at a 
public-house on the way, and while they were re- 
freshing themselves, Mrs. Dixon gave indications to 
the bystanders that she should like to take a little 
something, or, at all events, to get out also. Most 
of them ran away in terror, but one had the presence 
of mind to bleed her, and got her put to bed ; and 
by the following morning she was well enough to 


COMING TO LIFE AGAIN 


253 


walk to her destination. By the Scottish law, it 
seems that a person upon whom judgment has once 
been executed cannot suffer a second time, while the 
marriage of the party supposed to have been exe- 
cuted is held to be dissolved. All that the King’s 
advocate could do, therefore, was to file a bill in the 
High Court of Judiciary against the unfortunate 
sheriff for omitting to fulfil, the law, which was ac- 
cordingly done. The husband of the revived lady 
married her publicly within a few days of her resus- 
citation, and she was living so late as the year 1753. 

In the second series of Captain Gronow’s “ Rec- 
ollections,” there is a curious narrative of escape 
from premature interment. 

In the retreat of the French army, he tells us that 
General Ornano, a Corsican, second husband of the 
beautiful Comtesse Walewska, and a distant relation 
of the Buonaparte family, received a severe wound 
from the bursting of a shell, which killed his horse 
and several soldiers who were near him. The gen- 
eral’s aide-de-camp, on looking round, observed Or- 
nano lying on his back, to all appearance dead, with 
the blood flowing from his mouth. A surgeon soon 
arrived, and declared that life was extinct. The 
aide-de-camp and a few soldiers commenced digging 
a grave ; but the ground was so hard, owing to the 
terrible cold that prevailed, that they could not 
make it deep enough to cover the body, and being 
pressed for time, they arranged the supposed corpse 
in decent order, and covered it with snow instead of 
earth. After this was done, the aide-de-camp re- 


254 


COMING TO LIFE AGAIN. 


ported to the Emperor Napoleon, who was not far 
off, the loss that the army had sustained in General 
Ornano, who was only twenty-six years of age, and 
the youngest officer of his rank in the army. The 
Emperor, who was very fond of the general, w T as 
deeply grieved, and exclaimed : 

“ Poor fellow ! He was one of my best cavalry 
officers ! ” and turning to one of his orderlies, de- 
sired him to go immediately and find out all about 
the wound which had caused his death. The officer, 
in order to satisfy himself upon this point, had the 
dead man taken out of the snow, and on looking at 
the wound, observed that the body was still warm. 
Furs and flannels were accordingly heaped upon the 
corpse, which was placed upon a shutter, and taken 
to headquarters. After much care and perseverance, 
he was restored to life, to the joy of the Emperor 
and the whole army. 

“ General Ornano,” concludes Captain Gronow, 
“ is now’ (1863) a Marshal of France and Governor of 
the Invalides, and related the above anecdote to one 
of my friends last summer.” 

The most striking of all known cases of premature 
interment, however, is that related in the “ Causes 
Celebres,” and which has formed the text of many a 
tale, and the trelliswork of many a moving ballad. 
Shelley, for instance, has embalmed it in his “ Gin- 
evra,” and Leigh Hunt in his beautiful “ Legend of 
Florence.” 

Two tradesmen of the Rue St. Honore, in Paris, 
being old friends, and possessing one a son and the 


COMING TO LIFE AGAIN. 


255 


other a daughter, had early determined, as their 
betters have often done, upon the marriage of these 
two young people. They looked forward to thus 
uniting their two “ establishments ” with the same 
pride that two country gentlemen sometimes feel in 
joining their adjacent estates by the union of the 
young squire with the heiress, while they were more 
fortunate than fathers in a similar position some- 
times find themselves, since that which they had 
set their minds upon, their offspring were equally 
anxious to accomplish also. Not very long, Iioav- 
ever, before the time actually fixed for the celebra- 
tion of these nuptials, a rich banker took a fancy to 
the young lady, and having won golden opinions 
from her parents, obtained her hand, all previous 
promises and contracts notwithstanding. They dis- 
covered that uniting the two establishments was not 
of such paramount importance after all, and that 
carriage exercise was essential to the health of their 
beloved daughter. 

The dutiful girl obeyed their wishes without much 
opposition ; but so far from improving her constitu- 
tion, she fell into a state of morbid melancholy, which 
resulted in lethargy and apparent death ; where- 
upon the banker buried her in a manner that left 
nothing to be desired. Now, like a virtuous young 
woman as she was, she had forbidden her former 
lover ever to present himself before her again, and 
to this prohibition he had bowed; but since she 
was interred, and given up by her husband, he 
thought it no harm to bribe the sexton of the vault 


256 


COMING TO LIFE AGAIN 


in which she lay to let him have one farewell look 
at her loved face before its beauty withered into 
dust; and this the more — it must be confessed — 
since once already she had fallen into a prolonged 
trance, which gave him a scintillation of hope that 
she might not be actually deceased even yet. 

Having carried the body to his own house, and 
using every means of restoration he could think of, 
he really did succeed in bringing her back to life. 
The astonishment of the lady upon resuscitation was 
of course extreme, but we do not hear so much about 
her sorrow ; and yielding to the many plausible ar- 
guments he urged in favor of his suit, she consented 
to accompany him to England, where they married, 
and lived together in much content. After several 
years, desiring to revisit his native land, and feeling 
convinced that nobody would suspect his wife’s 
identity, the husband returned to Paris, and within 
a very few days the happy pair came suddenly upon 
the bereaved banker, in the public street. If the 
young woman had been alone, she might perhaps 
have pretended to be a spirit, or hit upon some 
other ingenious expedient to hoodwink the widow- 
er, but seeing her arm-in-arm with her former lover, 
the coincidence was a little too striking to be ex- 
plained away. The banker, who does not seem to 
have set any extraordinary value upon her while 
she was his own, was transported with the desire of 
repossessing her, and laid his claim at once before 
a legal tribunal. The cause was. argued at length 
upon both sides. The advocate for the lover argued 


COMING TO LIFE AGAIN. 


257 


that but for him the lady would have now had no ex- 
istence, would have been dead, and neither the wife of 
the banker nor of anybody else ; that her first hus- 
band had divested himself of all his rights in interring 
her; and even that he might think himself lucky in 
not being indicted for homicide for consigning her 
to a living tomb. But although the spirit of the law 
might be with husband No. 2, the letter was against 
him ; and seeing that the court was inclined to favor 
his adversary’s suit, he prudently anticipated its 
decision by returning once more to England, where 
the lady and himself remained until the banker died. 
How the law of Great Britain would decide so ex- 
traordinary a matter, I cannot tell; but with re- 
spect to incomplete executions — however it may 
have been in Scotland at the period of Mrs. Dixon’s 
case — the idea that a resuscitated malefactor is no 
longer answerable for his crime seems to be the 
merest assumption ; the sentence runs, that he is to 
be hanged by the neck until he be dead; and if he be 
not dead, it is clear that the sentence has not been 
carried out, and that the offender is still subject to 
the forfeit. The Crown, of cpurse, would be able to 
remit the penalty, but only by a free pardon, as it 
might have done before the first execution ; and, in- 
deed, there is a case in point. 

In 1350, a criminal, named Walter Wynkbourne, 
was hanged at Leicester, and having been taken 
down after the lapse of the usual period, was found 
to be yet alive. Some were for recommencing the 
execution, but the more humane took him to the 
17 


258 


COMING TO LIFE AGAIN. 


sanctuary, in the Church of St. Sepulchre in that 
town, until the will of the king should be known. 
Edward III., the then monarch, happened to be with 
the religious in Leicester Monastery at the very time, 
and an application was at once made to his clemency. 
The king thereupon forgave the criminal in Latin, 
which, I hope, was translated to him without delay 
— Deus tibi dedit vitam, et nos tibi dabimus castam 
(God hath given thee life, and we will give thee par- 
don). 


FRAUDULENT BANKRUPTCY. 


Among all the mitigations of punishment that 
have, been introduced of late years into the statute- 
book, those relating to offences against commerce 
are the most remarkable. A few months’ imprison- 
ment, followed by the presentation of “ a third-class 
certificate,” are evils which now befall a man for 
doing what in the last century would have subjected 
him to the penalty of death. It is even at this date 
sometimes objected that a man may brutally ill-treat 
a fellow-creature, with less danger to himself, from 
the retributive arm of the law, than he will incur 
from maliciously breaking a window ; but in the old 
times property was held yet more sacred, and flesh 
and blood far cheaper. Apologists for this state of 
things were never wanting, even among benevolent 
persons. “In a commercial country like our own, 
sir,” said they, with their thumbs,, doubtless, in the 
armholes of their long waistcoats, “ such severity 
is absolutely necessary for our social protection.” 
There was very little “ protection ” for the bankrupt, 
however, and if anything was “ suspended,” it was 
not that, but himself, per col. Commercial scoun- 
drels have now a comparative immunity, and it must 
be confessed that they have improved in some re- 


260 


FRAUDULENT BANKRUPTCY. 


spects. In the present mild and genial atmosphere 
of our bankruptcy laws, they flourish and expand 
into magnificence. They rob the widow and the 
orphan by wholesale, without the least prejudice to 
any individual in particular ; their manners are gen- 
erally frank and agreeable, and their mode of life 
almost always that of open-handed gentlemen. 
Their predecessors, on the contrary, were pettifog- 
ging persons, whose transactions were contemptibly 
small ; they confined themselves to ruining one or 
two individuals upon the sly, and therein, as we can- 
not but suspect, must have been sooner or later ac- 
tuated by malice, or the sense of a wrong begun, . 
which is even worse ; while they rarely confined 
themselves to mere commercial frauds, but upon the 
principle of it being as well to be hung for a sheep 
as a lamb, they often did things unbecoming a gen- 
tleman and a fraudulent bankrupt. They kept low 
company too, and so far from having a house in 
town and a house in the country, lived “ over ” ob- 
scure coffee-houses and in mean apartments. 

These thoughts occurred to me when, on a beauti- 
ful October day, I found myself taking part in a 
large picnic party on a certain maritime estate, the 
abdicated monarch of which had been a commercial 
defaulter on the grandest scale. He had had a bank 
of his very own, which had suddenly broken up, and 
all had gone down who had put their trust in it, 
except himself, who had clung to some considerable 
fragments, and been preserved. He was supposed 
to have three thousand a year or so still left to live 


FRAUDULENT BANKRUPTCY. 


261 


upon, but in a foreign land, and destitute of many 
things that were doubtless necessaries of life to him, 
such as Severn salmon, whitebait (which will not 
bear transit across the Channel), and the Anglican 
Choral Service, to which he was particularly at- 
tached. 

He had built a beautiful chapel near his mansion 
— and how could the widows and orphans hope for a 
better investment of their money? — with stained 
windows and carved ceilings ; the lectern was highly 
gilded, the chancel was panelled with oak ; every- 
thing, in short, was ecclesiastical in the liig*hest de- * 
gree, and breathed not a syllable of bankruptcy, ex- 
cept the organ, whose notes (it being out of order) 
were stopped. It may be urged — and, indeed, it 
had been urged pretty strongly — that a bankrupt of 
such high principles should have surrendered him- 
self, and give up his little all for the use of his 
creditors ; but to these arguments he had respond- 
ed, in a gentlemanly and quiet manner that was pe- 
culiar to him, that the remnant of his goods (waiv- 
ing the question for the present as to whether they 
were his or no) were a mere drop in the ocean of his 
liabilities ; that they could do no good divided 
among the army of widows and orphans (even taking 
that uncommercial and ultra-sentimental view of the 
circumstances of his creditors), whereas the money 
was just sufficient to supply himself with little 
comforts in his enforced exile. With regard to this 
last matter, he explained that he had left England 
on account of the state of his bronchial tubes ; if he 


262 


FRAUDULENT BANKRUPTCY. 


were in health, nothing would have afforded him 
greater satisfaction than to have cleared himself 
from every imputation upon his character in the 
Bankruptcy Court, or before any other tribunal ; 
but as it was, instead of presenting himself in per- 
son, he begged to forward a medical certificate from 
a doctor of the University of Christiania, and very 
highly thought of in his own country, explaining 
that the air of Norway (beneficial as he, the bank- 
rupt, had already found it) had not as yet sufficiently 
renovated his constitution to admit of a visit to his 
native shores. 

Of his letter containing these very sensible re- 
marks I did not possess a copy (although it had been 
widely published), but the sentiments, which I am 
conscious of having reproduced very feebly in com- 
parison with the nervous grace of the original man- 
uscript, were indelibly imprinted on my memory. 
I could think of nothing else, in that stately but 
dismantled hall, but of the bankrupt who had once 
inhabited it, and I left the joyous and unthinking 
throng to muse in solitude upon his singular career. 
I had never, seen him, I had never lost anything by 
him (which are almost synonymous expressions), but 
yet I felt intensely interested in him, as I strolled 
amid the ruins of his unjustifiable grandeur. The 
estate was extensive, and very beautiful ; he had 
purchased it as a wilderness, and he had made it 
smile, for the few years that he had been its lord, like 
a garden. He had rescued swampy acres from the 
devouring sea ; yea, he had taken in the very land, 


FRAUDULENT BANKRUPTCY. 263 

and used it for liis own purposes. As though he had 
found not sufficient game among his fellow-creatures, 
he had built a pheasantry in one of the woods. The 
birds had down, or rather had been disposed of 
after the grand crash, at that great sale at the Hall 
which had set all the country agog, and swelled the 
advertising columns of half the London newspapers ; 
and the empty cages stood with rusty wires, through 
which the unpruned laurels and wild honeysuckles 
strove to make their way. A swing, constructed on 
the best principles, and costing, I should guess, as 
much as a dozen ordinary swings, hung broken, 
whereon, perhaps, happy, innocent children had often 
taken their pleasure, unconscious of impending ruin. 
In the midst a Triton, once a fountain, struggled in 
vain with the ivy’s hundred arms. A grotto, lined 
with exquisite sea-sliells, which had only not been 
picked out for the benefit of the creditors because 
it was found they broke in the process, crowned this 
scene of desolation. The artificial lake, once care- 
fully cleared from water-weeds, was now so crammed 
therewith that the defaced and dingy pleasure-skiffs, 
rotting in the rotting boat-house, could scarce have 
made way through them. The gravelled paths that 
led through the heath and wilderness, and over crags 
beneath which the limitless sea outspread, were rank 
with moss, or overgrown with briar. 

Nearer the Hall itself, the ruin was even still 
more ghastly. Nothing remained firm and stable 
but the pigeon-house, which, as might have been ex- 
pected, was very large ; it stood upon its lofty pole 


264 


FRAUDULENT BANKRUPTCY. 


— a substantial sarcasm — the very sign and emblem 
of the bankrupt’s home. The mansion was of im- 
mense extent, with gilded ceilings, and chimney- 
pieces curiously carved. Here and there great slabs 
of oaken panelling had been cut bodily out for the 
sake of the pictures painted on them ; everything 
that was of the least value of itself had been borne 
away ; but the fixtures were left, in hopes that some 
tenant might be found wealthy enough to “ take to” 
them along with the Hall. Thus, along the great 
conservatories, stripped of their choice flowers, the 
empty water-pipes, cold and useless, still ran in triple 
fold ; the marble bath-rooms, mocked one with their 
“ hot ” and “ cold ” and “ tepid ” handles ; the statues 
that once were fountains, stood naked and dusty, 
robbed of their silver music. Some melancholy 
aloes, in decaying tubs, added bitterness to the 
scene. On the quay stood a watch-tower in ruins, 
and the steps were green and slimy by which the 
lordly bankrupt was wont to embark in his eight- 
oared galley. 

The legends of this man that hung about the place 
and were retailed by the aborigines as gladly as they 
were accepted by the gaping visitors, were redeemed 
from all vulgarity by the scale of grandeur on which 
they were built. The sense of his crime was sunk 
in appreciation of his magnificence. He had robbed 
as no man had ever robbed before him, but he had 
spent the money like a prince, and dismissing the 
depreciatory fact that he had no right to one far- 
thing of it, the bankrupt was an accomplished gen- 


FRAUDULENT BANKRUPTCY. 


265 


tleman, a man of taste, a connoisseur in sacred music, 
in painting (strictly classical), and in the fine arts 
generally. An excellent landlord, a genial friend, a 
munificent patron of the Church, his character (but 
for that one little blot aforesaid) ran like an epitaph. 
I could not but endeavor to picture the feelings of 
the man himself, placed on this bad eminence, and 
cultivating all social relations in so admirable a man- 
ner. Was he able to dismiss from his mind the 
sense of his own shame ? Did he excuse away his 
enormous guilt ? That letter from Norway led me 
rather to imagine that he succeeded in doing this. 
I had heard that he had of late been obliged to visit 
Paris for the best medical advice — could it be pos- 
sible that his conscience began to tell upon his di- 
gestion ? No ; he was altogether too well-bred a man. 

Now, while I reflected upon this matter, my mem- 
ory suddenly presented to me the case of another bank- 
rupt — not on account of any similarity between the 
two, but from their violent contrast. Both of them 
indeed, were Curiosities of Crime, but the one was 
an example of impunity, and the other of the utmost 
severity of punishment. The bankrupt of whose in- 
voluntary hospitality I was then partaking had the 
good fortune to cross the Channel, which, if he had 
not done, serious consequences would have befallen 
him. He would have had to disgorge much of his 
little all, and might even have been imprisoned for 
several months. The other bankrupt whom I have 
in my mind’s eye did not cross the Channel, and the 
consequence was as follows, 


266 


FRAUDULENT BANKRUPTCY. 


In tlie autumn of 1712 Richard Town was tried 
at the Old Bailey for withdrawing himself from his 
creditors, after a commission of bankruptcy had 
been issued against him, and with fraudulently 
removing tallow valued at <£400, as well as £400 in 
money, with his debt-books and books of account. 
Altogether, therefore, Mr. Town had but taken £800 
with him, with the intention of living upon that 
modest property in a foreign land. Standing upon 
my other bankrupt’s property, and beholding his 
mansion and his pigeon-house, I protest that his 
fraudulent prototype seemed by comparison posi- 
tively an honest man. An honest man, however, 
with the very hardest luck in the world ; the most 
unfortunate wretch (to be guilty) in all the annals 
of criminal law, as I do believe. He had gone down 
to Sandwich, with the intention of sailing in a cer- 
tain vessel to Amsterdam ; but being too late for 
that, he had to embark in the common packet-boat to 
Ostend. Now, this modest £800 he carried about - 
his person, in guineas , between his coat and his 
waistcoat. Moreover, in his legitimate pockets he 
had twenty guineas in gold and five pounds seven 
and sixpence in silver. But all this money did not 
prevent Mr. Richard Town from being excessively 
sea-sick. A severe gale having arisen, he had to 
betake himself to the side of the vessel, like many a 
more honest man,* and among his other offerings to 

* A curious instance of the universality of this weakness is 
afforded by the following ancient tenure: “Solomon Attefield 
held land at Keperland and Atterton, in the county of Kent, 


FRAUDULENT BANKRUPTCY . 


267 


Neptune, lie dropped his eight hundred guineas 
in gold into the sea. Is it possible to imagine 
a more melancholy situation than that of this poor 
man ? Dreadfully sea-sick ; very likely suffering 
from the pangs of conscience; certainly having lost 
the money for which he had risked so much, and 
on which alone he calculated for future subsistence ! 
And yet a still greater misfortune remained in store. 

The gale grew so violent that the packet-boat was 
absolutely driven back, and forced to put into Sand- 
wich. Conceive the feelings of our fraudulent bank- 
rupt during that return voyage ! It is said that no 
man with money in his pocket ever gives up hope ; 
but it would have been far better for Richard Town 
(as will be seen) if he had thrown the rest of his 
pocket-money (or, at least, ten pounds of it) into the 
same sea which had swallowed up his two bags of 
gold. He was met at Sandwich by an emissary of 
the law, who had previously been biting his nails on 
the quay, because, as he fancied, he had just missed 
him. “But doth not a meeting like this make 
amends?” must have been that bailiffs thought, 
although probably not his exact expression, since he 
lived anterior to Mr. Thomas Moore. His vulgar 
joy, the prostration and despair of his victim, can 
easily be imagined. This officer, having searched 

that as often as our lord the king would cross the sea. the said 
Solomon and his heirs should go along with him, to hold his 
head, if it was needful.” A dreadful service surely for that 
ancient house to perform, if the Attefields themselves were 
liable to the mal de mer. 


268 


FRAUDULENT BANKRUPTCY. 


the poor fellow, took away his £25, “ but left him 
the odd silver.” Being put upon his trial, poor 
Town discovered that it had been enacted: ‘‘Did 
any person, being a bankrupt, after the month of 
April, 1707, fraudulently conceal, embezzle, or make 
away with goods or money to the value of £20, he 
should be deemed guilty of felony ; ” and felony, in 
those days, was punished by death. Now, the £800, 
which he had lost in the sea, it was difficult to prove 
that he had possessed himself of ; but the £25 found 
on his person brought him within the Act. Rich- 
ard Town was the first person who underwent the 
extreme penalty of the law for the offence of Fraud- 
ulent Bankruptcy, and he refused to acknowledge 
the justice of his sentence. When sentence was 
passed upon him, he was put into the condemned 
hole with the vilest prisoners, and there caught so 
violent a cold as to render him stone deaf. To com- 
plete his misfortunes, he was hanged, we are told, 
upon his birthday — “a circumstance which, with 
great composure, he mentioned to the Ordinary of 
Newgate on his way to the place of execution.” 


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